Martin
by Kuroneko0489
Summary: As he awaits death, Martin looks back at his life through a series of vignettes.
1. Nineteen

1

Nineteen

* * *

I lie beside her, embracing her warm body as she whispers in my ear, "I love you," her breath caressing my face. I look her in the eye and kiss her hard, and she moans, kissing me back, but I push her away. Holding her shoulder with one hand, I run my fingers down the side of her face and neck. She shivers and tells me it tickles. I smile and pay her no mind, my fingers venturing further downward, discovering and exploring.

"I love you," I say, my eyes locked onto hers, which are an earthy green and sparkle like emeralds. Tears form in her eyes, and she holds them back and laughs. We kiss again, this time lightly, our smiles fitting perfectly together. We part, and I turn her around, breathing on her neck and kissing her back. She giggles.

"Teague," she says. Hearing my name makes me jump, and I almost snap at her.

"Martin," I say, calming my voice at the last moment. My heart beats fast, but I sigh silently in relief. I can't ruin this for myself.

"Martin..." she purrs. "May I tell you a secret?" I lean over her and whisper into her ear.

"Yes," I say, letting my breath linger silently after I speak. I nuzzle her neck, and I know it tickles her. But she likes that. She smiles.

"I..." she starts. I grow tense but force myself to relax. I have to be patient. She speaks again, this time in a whisper. "I've never told this to anyone." She pauses, and I massage her shoulder, waiting for her to speak. She takes a deep breath. "I have some extra money... Nobody else knows." Inside, I laugh at her foolishness... "And I know I can trust you." ...And her naïveté. "You're the only man I've ever loved..."

_You told me I was your first, _I almost say.

"...And I want you to know that I don't care where you came from." She turns to me, and I look back at her, my face showing nothing but love and dedication. "And maybe one day, we'll be able to be together for real. In public. All I want to do is show you off to everyone I know, but if I do that - I lose everything. It makes me feel so guilty, that I would pick my lifestyle over you - "

"No," I say, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "You have to do what you must do. It's no use for both of us to be poor and starving. I will love you no matter what." I almost roll my eyes.

"I know," she says. "That's what makes you so special, but I have an idea. If you were _actually_ rich, we could be together, so if I give you the money..." My ears perk, and my breath catches in my throat.

"...You could start a business." I exhale, and my mask breaks away. This conversation has taken an interesting turn. "Then, you could make enough money to be with me." She smiles like a little girl.

"And what would this business be?" My real self kicks into action. "And how would I ensure that I'd be successful? What if I lose all the money?"

"I don't know what the business would be," she says, looking down. "But, it shouldn't be that difficult." I can tell that suddenly, she realizes her plan is not very likely to succeed. Disappointed, I don my mask again.

"My beautiful Francesca," I say, lightly holding her chin between my fingers, "I will consider your plan." Her eyes light up.

"I - I did not think that you would," she says. "I mean, I believed you would when I first thought of it, but when I actually said it - " I put my fingers to her lips. Anything to stop her from rambling on. I grow anxious. This entire ordeal has been tiring, and I am ready to be done with it.

"Dear, I will make it work because I love you, and I will do anything for you." She embraces me and kisses my lips.

"Martin," she says. I smile. My name from her lips sounds like a standing applause, but I cannot take my final bow quite yet...

"Where is this money you spoke of?" I take a risk, but she does not notice my forwardness. _Love blinds us,_ I think to myself. The magic of love surrounds her, shrouding her vision in illusion... and _I_ am the magician.

"Just behind there," she says, pointing to a large painting across the room.

_Damn it, I didn't check behind the paintings._ I nearly curse audibly at my stupidity, but knowing the safe's location is only the first part. I decide to take another risk, hoping that her mind will be cloudy enough to not notice.

"I'll start tomorrow," I say, "But how do I get to the money?"

"It's not all coin," she says. "Some of it is family heirlooms and antiques. All of them are beautiful, but not as beautiful as you." My mouth grows numb as my fake smile grows wider and more desperate. My cheeks ache. I concentrate on her silky skin, running my callused palms down her hip. She likes that.

"I - I'll..." she starts. I distract her too much; I rest my hand on her waist. "I know you usually leave early in the mornings, so I'll give you the combination now. I would prefer that you stayed, though." She grins. "I'll order breakfast in bed and hide you under the covers when my servants arrive." I laugh lightly, and her face turns serious. There is longing in her eyes. "I would love to wake up in your arms," she whispers. Her eyes are far away, and the tears form again. "The arms of the man I love."

"Of course," I say sincerely, never flinching as I look into her eyes. She sighs, relieved.

"Seven, two, five," she says. "Will you remember? Shall I write it down for you?"

"No," I say, tapping the side of my head with my finger. "I'll remember." She looks at me, and we share a silent moment, but soon I am restless. _One last time,_ I say to myself.

I pin her to the bed and climb on top of her. Her eyes are both curious and excited as I close the distance between us, and as the night passes by, we are in ecstasy - she, from the sugar-sweetness of love, and I, from both greed and lust.

I awake to darkness. She is asleep, warm and soft against my steel skin. I look at her one last time and then climb out of bed. My clothes are on the floor. I don them silently, feeling my way in the dark. Across the room is the painting. I don't remember what is on it, and from here, the canvas is nothing but shadows. I cross the room, quietly and carefully, my hands out in front of me, and there it is. The painting creaks on its hinges as I pull it back. It opens like a door and reveals the safe, and I remember the numbers: Seven, Two, Five. The metal safe clicks and pops open - a satisfying sound. As I look inside, even in the dark I know that what I see is beautiful. My bag is in the corner, and I fill it with as much as it will carry. She doesn't wake, even as the gold clangs and clinks as I drop it into the bag until it is stuffed. I strain to close it, but I manage. The safe is a black hole, now, like a mouth waiting for a taste of food. I leave it none.

I close the door and put the picture back in place. The balcony doors beckon me, and I catch a glimpse of moonlight as the clouds break. I turn the handles and step outside. I smell the air; it smells of freedom.

I shimmy my way down a pipe, and my feet hit the grass with a muffled _thud._ The mansion looms over me like a cage, and I laugh, taunting it at its inability to keep me locked up. Finally, this is over, but I feel the weight of the gold on my back and suddenly, it hurts. The straps cut into my shoulders, and the bag bends my back, but I must carry what I have taken. There is no dropping it, now. I resign myself to my burden and huff my way down the cobblestone road, the gold pulling me down all the way back home.


	2. Eight

I'm really not sure about this chapter. I had a very hard time writing in the style of the first one; there's a lot less inner dialogue, and this is my second draft of my rewrite of the forth version of chapter two. Because I did not know the terms for these words, I made them up: A person from Morley is Morlish, and a person from Gristol is Gristian. Minnow is a slang word for a person from Morley. And if you care, Beall is pronounced "bell". If there are better words you can think of, please let me know.

Also, I used a character from AMALAS in this chapter, because I could. I'm saying that Martin is 43 in the game, so this is about 10 years after Samuel meets the character.

I'm very sorry that I didn't manage to write this chapter as well, but please let me know what you think. I hope you're not too disappointed.

* * *

2

Eight

* * *

I study the coin, tracing my finger along its smooth edge. It is silver and tarnished with a layer of cloudy blackness that is both gritty and slightly sticky to the touch. The edge is sharp, as the coin has been flattened, the face of the Emperor stretched and faded on its surface. When I found the coin, among many others, in a pouch around the waist of a distracted newsboy, I rifled through all of the possibilities of what to do with it. I could spend it on sweets, but then again, if I wanted sweets, there was no need to pay for them. As the giant, metal railcar, rumbled down the street, I knew what I had to do, and I ran ahead of it, pushing and shoving my way through legs and around carts until I found the perfect spot. This coin was made for this. Setting the coin down on the shiny track, I waited for the railcar to pass. The flattening of the coin was uneventful, but I was left with a beauty, all my own.

But now, Ms. Beall snatches it from me and holds it, shaking it in my face.

"Where did you get it?" she says. "Answer me, Teague. Did you steal it?" I usually pride myself on never getting caught whenever I am blessed with a dose of inspiration to do something mischievous or otherwise, but today, I made a simple mistake, taking the coin out of my pocket and fiddling with it in my hand. The careless mistakes are always the worst. "You destroyed it," the old caretaker says, flipping the coin over. "Defaced the Emperor. You know that is _illegal_, Teague, as is stealing." She assumes I stole it, even though I did not give her an answer; she _has_ known me almost my entire life. She sighs and shakes her head, slipping the coin into her pocket. I follow her hand with my eyes and nearly reach in to get the coin back. It's _my_ coin. _My_ work. "You are going to behave," Beall says, shaking her finger above my head. She reminds me of a turkey as her chin jiggles. I look up at her smugly. The hag thinks that a good scolding and a switch to the legs will keep us in line, but over the years, I've grown numb to every one of her punishments. Even though her words do not affect me, still, I am not happy. Not only do I feel foolish for my mistake with the coin, but now I've let myself be robbed by an old woman. I can feel resentment building inside of me.

"_Ahem_." I hear the voice of a man, clearing his throat. Beall's skirt blocks my view, and I peer around her as she turns. I am forgotten as the old woman rushes to him on her wobbly legs, and I see her mouth moving as she smiles politely and sweeps her arm around the room. The man nods as she speaks.

He enters the room, looking out of place in his expensive suit and fedora, among the dirt and wear of the old building. He smokes a cigarette and carries a silver pistol, strolling through the room as if he is familiar with the place. Ms. Beall seems to know him, so maybe he is. I eye him as he walks among us, studying us, like cattle. Or slaves. I hope he is not from the mine. I've heard that they take orphans and put them to work in deep chasms underground, filled with dust and dirt.

Beall points to me, leaning in close to whisper in his ear, and he nods, taking the cigarette from his mouth and letting loose a cloud of smoke. Beall covers her mouth and coughs a few times before leading him to me.

I stand, trying to study the man as he studies the other boys. His bright blue eyes lock onto mine, and I notice his strange appearance. His skin is tanned, not burnt, and his hair is a light brown that blends into the color of his face. He approaches me and kneels. I am taller than him, now, and I look down as his piercing, blue eyes scan my face. Even kneeling below me, this man can make an impression. He is important.

I find myself wanting to steal his cigarette and smoke it, and the cigarette is not the only thing of his I want.

"You know who I am, kid?" he asks me. Smoke comes from his mouth, and I take a deep breath, sucking it in. It stings my throat.

"No," I reply. Should I know? No, I don't think so, or else I would.

"Name's Mickey Smith," he says, holding out his hand. I shake it as firmly as I can. "Wow, you got a strong grip, there." I can tell he is mocking me. Complimenting me as one would a child. I can think and move quickly, but I know my weaknesses, and I am not strong. Not yet. I narrow my eyes at him, and he sees that I don't buy his act. Mickey Smith looks up at Ms. Beall.

"He's a sharp one," he says. "You're right about that."

Beall nods, unsmiling.

"He has a fecund mind, indeed. Though, what he chooses to use it on..." She trails off. I wonder if Beall mentioned the snake incident. Gus's swollen face as he suffocated still haunts me. I did not understand what death really meant until then, but I do admit - it was a good plan.

"What's your name, kid?" he says, his face getting closer to mine.

I find myself getting uncomfortable with him so close. His breath smells of smoke and tobacco, but it is not unpleasant to me. I consider taking advantage of this moment to... _what_ the hell. It's what I do best. I snatch the cigarette from his mouth, and his eyes follow my hand, never blinking. _Yeah, I smoke these all the time, _I want to say, as I hold the rolled paper between my two fingers. I lean against the wall with one hand in my pocket, like the thugs do in the alleys, put the cigarette to my lips and inhale. The smoke is caustic in my throat. It _burns_. I suppress a cough - and then another. And another. Mickey smirks, watching my shoulders and chest convulse as I hold in the smoke and spasms building my throat, and little gray puffs eject from my nostrils, diffusing into the air. Finally, I lose the battle, opening my mouth and letting gray vapor cascade from my throat and then falling into a coughing fit. My eyes water. Is this how smoking feels all the time? Maybe I am not quite ready for it, yet.

Mickey chuckles through his nose.

"How was your first cigarette, kid?" he says, patting me on the back as I choke. He takes the cigarette from my hand and sticks it back between his lips, inhaling effortlessly, and laughing again as I wipe the tears from my eyes. I recover and look Mickey in the eye, hoping that he does not think any less of me, now, and I am relieved as his laughter subsides.

"Martin," I say, forcing my voice into a smooth, rich tone . I can't let this man think I'm not worth his time. It doesn't matter who he is or what he does. He wants to talk especially to me, and I must prove myself to him.

"Martin, what?" Mickey asks, raising an eyebrow. Should I lie and give him a fake last name? Or should I just tell him that my name is -

"His name is _Teague_," caws Beall. "_Teague _Martin." Damn that old crone and her mouth. I see her lips pucker sourly as the man turns back to me.

"Martin," I insist. "It's _just_ Martin." No last name. I cross my arms stubbornly. I will not let that name follow me. It will die here, in this orphanage.

"Well," Mickey says. "Martin'll work, then." He looks my face up and down. "You don't want folks knowing you're a minnow?" I nod. I don't really know if I was born in Morley or if I'm of Morlish descent, but I figure that giving a definite answer is better than being unsure. That ridiculous name is my only clue of my parents' heritage, so I use it as evidence as to my own. "You look like a mutt, and you ain't got the accent," Mickey says. "The name's really the only thing that's keeping you from posing as a native-born Gristian." He nods. "Smart move, kid. The name Teague'll give you away in an instant. You'll get much further without your name holding you down."

I know. I wonder if Mickey Smith is his real name. He doesn't look like he was born in Gristol. I know I can pass for Gristian, as my hair is a dark brown, not black, and my eyes are a gray-green, not bright green. My skin is normal; it looks just like everyone else's.

"How'd you like to work for Black Sally?" says Mickey. Now, I know _that _name. My eyes widen as I think of the possibilities. All of that time I spent stealing and planning will pay off. I can be _somebody_. A rare gift for boys like me. I can't help but smirk as I scan the room, eying the other children.

"So, what do you think, kid?"

_Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!_

"I'd be interested in that," I say, giving him a nod. "I've got some experience - "

"A simple 'yes' is fine." Mickey throws his cigarette away. "Be at the warehouse on Spink Street, an hour before dawn on the first day of the week," Mickey says, straightening his hat. He stands. "I'll give you some advice, kid. Don't let people take advantage of you - well, at least the ones who don't deserve it." He takes my hand and slaps a coin in my palm, giving me a wink. I gape at it for a second, but then I realize that it is _my_ coin. The one I flattened under the railcar.

Mickey tips his hat at Beall and saunters out of the building, his steps perfectly timed so that he doesn't need to stop walking as he approaches the door. I fear my wonder has spread to my face, but there is nobody to notice it right now.

"Damn that man _and_ that awful Black Sally," Beall says, her voice wavering. "They would take all of my children if they could." The old woman's eyes water, and I will her to leave. I don't want her crying on _me. _I don't know why she is upset, when most of her children are taken to the mines or forced to work in the sewers, clearing them of river krusts. "I'm sorry, Teague," Beall says, looking down at me. Her eyes still glisten, and I ready myself to dodge any tears that fall from them while she hovers over me. "I should not curse in front of you." I don't care if she curses, but I'd rather she didn't cry. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "Remember, no more stealing," she says, patting me on the head. She then hobbles away, finally resting in her old, wooden rocking chair.

I see the cigarette butt, still smoking, on the ground. I pick it up, rolling it over my palm and then run to my box. The small, worn box is tucked neatly under my cot, and I open it, moving its contents aside. The coin goes in first, looking rich and grand among the other items, and then, I place the cigarette butt in the box, a token from the man who will change my life.

I put the box away, but now I don't know what to do with myself. It is only the sixth day of the week, and I am restless. Do I go play with the other boys, pretending that everything is the same as it has always been? Or am I allowed to brag? I look around and realize that I don't want to sit with them. I never want to _play _with them ever again. The other children are in groups, playing cards or flipping bottle caps, distracting themselves from the hopelessness of their lives, but I stand alone, dreaming of opportunity.


	3. Forty-Three

I have to say that I'm enjoying writing this, but it is very frustrating.

I don't know the exact timeline of events for all of the characters in the game, but for my writing, I'm interpreting it to be that Martin and Havelock lived in the pub, with Martin going back and forth. Martin got captured, and then Pendleton arrived, so Martin didn't meet Pendleton until he returned to the pub after being freed by Corvo. I hope that sounds okay. Also, let me know if this ends too abruptly.

* * *

3

Forty-Three

* * *

I make my way to the second floor of the Hounds Pits Pub, feeling as though I will fall asleep on the stairs. Despite having traveled all day, sore and hungry, I was expected to get straight to work as soon as I arrived. I cannot wait to get into my bed and sleep. I haven't even had the time to tell anyone how much my body still aches from sleeping in the stocks. I feel as though there is a knife in my spine. I turn the corner to my room, but it seems to be occupied, and already, I am annoyed at this hindrance further keeping me from resting.

Lord Pendleton paces back and forth with a bottle in his hand. I clear my throat, and he jumps.

"Yes?" he says, the petrified look on his face disappearing as fast as it appeared. He straightens his shirt collar, neatening it around his chicken neck. I invite myself into my room and look around; an audiograph sits on a dresser made of polished mahogany, and a love seat rests to the right, its silk cushions looking nothing but expensive. A few paintings hang on the walls, and the shelf that once held my mask and overseer's certificate overflows with empty glass bottles. The bottles have spread to the night stand and bed; he might as well have spit on everything.

"I guess things have changed since I've been gone," I say, making my face unreadable.

"Well, yes," says Pendleton. He stands up straight and holds the edges of his jacket, his nose pointed at the ceiling. "The Admiral thought it proper for me to have my own room, being nobility and all." He gives me a polite smile, flourishing his hand in front of him. Being an overseer all these years has made me sloppy with my facial expressions, and I scowl. Pendleton sees it, and his eyes widen as he takes a step backward. I take a deep breath, relaxing my facial muscles, and then I use my overseer voice.

"And Havelock was very right to do so," I say, as though I were giving valuable advice. "Of course, someone of your station cannot share a room. I am just another overseer." I bow to him, "A protector of the people." Or a glorified servant. Bowing to the scrawny lord is murder on my back. I wince, my back pain being but one of the many reasons as to why.

Pendleton seems satisfied with my response and motions toward a box in the corner. At least he was considerate enough to have his manservant unceremoniously stuff my effects into a small box.

"I believe your belongings are in there," he says, waving his hand. I cross the room and pick up the box, half-expecting it to be filled with glass bottles. My mask stares at me, fierce and strong among my other belongings, and I look at Pendleton, then back at the mask. I give the skeletal lord a smile.

"Thank you, Lord Pendleton," I say.

"Treavor," he replies. "We are all equal here." I leave as my emotion threatens to overtake me.

There are no more bedrooms left, so I must sleep in the servants' quarters. I feel disrespected and sore at my two "equal" colleagues, who treat me as though I am not nearly as important to this group as I am. And when I am captured and left to suffer in the stocks, Havelock gives my room away to that entitled noble. What has Pendleton done? _Or_ Havelock? I sit with them and tell them my ideas. Without me, without all the risks I've taken, there would be no Corvo, no Emily, nothing. _I'm_ the one who does the planning. _I_ am the mastermind behind this entire conspiracy, and they treat me no better than they would a lowly servant. Resentment grows inside of me, tasting bitter in my throat, and I realize that I don't need them. So, once they have done their jobs, I can get rid of them all - Pendleton, Havelock, Corvo - everyone. All I need is Emily.

But for now, I must look them all in the eye and call them "friend." We should never underestimate our friends.

The servants are still cleaning up for the night, so I have the room to myself for now. I pick a bunk and sit down; my head hits the back of the top bunk, and I grimace. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. This is going to be a long few months, but I know I will get through it. I always have.

_And sometimes we must make sacrifices for the greater good,_ I hear the overseer's voice in my head, but another answers. _Fuck the greater good,_ it says. _I deserve better than this. All I have to do is take a little action, and then I'll have what's mine._ I push the second voice away, reminding myself that I am a changed man. I will gladly sacrifice my comfort for a while to participate in a good cause.

I reach to my scalp, and already, I feel a lump forming on the back of my head.

I awake sore as ever, and for a few seconds, I think I am back in the stocks; I can't be sure whether I was having a good dream or a nightmare. The sun barely peaks through the window, and the sky is a gray blue. I can hear the servants shuffling about the room, getting dressed for the day. I close my eyes again and try to get comfortable, but the mattress is thin, and the metal springs do nothing but dig into my back. I sigh and sit up, banging my head against the top bunk in the process.

"Goddammit," I say, putting my palm against my forehead. The day has hardly started, and already I have a headache.

"Mister Martin, are you okay?" A servant in a boys' cap approaches me.

"Yes, I'm fine." I wave her away. "Just my way of starting the day," I say with a charming smile. All I want to do is scowl and get back into bed, but I remember the metal springs and stand instead.

"Are you sure?" asks the girl. "Would you like a cloth or some ice?" She isn't leaving, and I will my face to stay put.

"I'm feeling great," I reply, my smile growing wider. I force some humor into my eyes. "It's exactly what I needed, or else I would've just slept the entire day. These beds are so comfortable." The girl looks down and nods her head.

"Well, if you need anything, please let me - "

"Cecelia." I hear a man's voice sound from the hallway. "Leave the man alone. You're bothering him, and you have work to do." The rare voice of a benevolent spirit.

"Goodbye, Mister Martin," says the girl, bending her knees awkwardly, and suddenly, I'm amused. Did she just try to curtsy? To me? I figure that the girl is just new, but then I think that maybe I've spoken with her before. Keeping track of the servants in this place is impossible. I swear, half of them look like the same person.

Downstairs, the Admiral is already awake and sips on a cup of black coffee.

"Ah, Martin," he says, his face expressionless. "I trust you had a good rest?"

"Great," I reply, raising my eyebrows. "I think I slept almost as well as I did in the stocks. It's so nice of you all to go out of your way to _really _make this place feel like home." I roll my shoulders and neck, and the joints pop and crack.

"I will see to your bedroom situation as soon as possible, Martin," says Havelock. "We've been busy here, as you know. Thanks to your genius, we're on our way to achieving our goal. We'll have victory in no time." He takes another sip of coffee.

"I'm glad to hear that." I am not surprised. I motion to one of the servants. "Coffee," I say as she approaches.

"What'll you have in it?"

"I'll take it black," I put my arms behind my head.

"I'm bringing out breakfast for the Admiral. Did you want breakfast too?"

I nod, and she leaves, heading for the kitchen.

Breakfast is simple, but the flavor bursts in my mouth. Suddenly the hard bed and the headache mean nothing to me, and I relish in the thought that I will never have to eat that green goop that the overseers served me, ever again. Unless, of course, they find me somehow. But I'll have more serious worries if that happens.

The Admiral and I finish our breakfast and find ourselves looking across the booth at one another.

"It's good to see you two are best friends, again," says one of the servants. She gives me a warm smile. "Of course," I say, grinning back. I never would have had to do this much smiling in prison. "I would never let anyone else get between our friendship, right Admiral?" Havelock mutters something, and I suspect that he is not listening.

Corvo enters the room, and I see the servant's eyes drift in his direction.

"Did you need anything else?" she asks.

"No, thanks," I say. "Unless you can supply me with Dunwall's most comfortable bed and an endless night." She chuckles.

"I wouldn't mind having that, myself." She steps back. "Well, if you don't need anything, I'll be attending to Corvo, now."

"Carry on," I tell her in my overseer voice.

She leaves, and I am left with Havelock again. He looks at me expectantly, and I already know what he is going to say.

"So, what's next?" he asks me, taking a sip of coffee.


	4. Eighteen

I popped this one out in a day, so let me know what you think about it. Also, I changed Martin's age in the first chapter to nineteen.

* * *

4

Eighteen

* * *

The vendor makes his way down the deserted alleyway, the wheels of his cart rumbling on the cobblestone road. I wait in the darkness, watching the man from the shadows. He is unaware of any danger. His guard is down in this part of town, the fool, and my daily routine falls into play.

I motion to Emil, who hides in a space between two buildings to my right, and he motions to Nico, who closes in behind the cart.

What is the man selling? It is a game I play whenever we rob a cart. I guess what is in the cart, and if I am right, well, there is no reward, but I _do_ like being right. I could be safe and guess that he has fish, as it is the most common food found at the market, but maybe I'll try something else. Fruit? Exotic fruit from Serkonos, their hues a mixture of vermillion, bittersweet orange and fresh yellow-greens. That will do. I'll find out soon enough if my guess is correct.

The man spots Emil first, who emerges from the shadows, stopping square in front of the cart, and I watch the vendor slow to a crawl, his eyes wary. I can see his grip tighten on the cart handles, and I clench my fists, ready to go. Nico is next, coming up behind the man and shoving him, hard, into the cart. Now, I can see terror in the man's face, his eyes wide and the bald top of his head covered in sweat. I saunter from my hiding place, casually moving to check the cart.

"No," he says in an accent. He is Serkonan, but neither Emil nor Nico accommodate him by speaking in their native tongue. "No," he repeats, shielding the cart with his hands. "I make money for my children." He yells another word in Serkonan, but I don't understand; I assume it was not a compliment.

"Tough luck," I say, grabbing his shoulders. I push him, and he stumbles toward Emil, who seizes him from behind. The vendor lets out a scream as he sees Nico approach, and I hear a soft thud followed by gurgling, as he punches the man in his pudgy stomach.

"No, help!" he pleads. "Help!" He looks to me, as if I will do something, but my eyes show him nothing but coldness.

_Let Nico and Emil do their job,_ I tell myself, taking a deep breath. I turn away from the scene and open the top of the cart. My guess was not even close, but what I find is better. Smoked meat and cheese look back up at me, and I marvel at our luck, sticking my head inside the cart to have a sniff before taking a few of everything and stuffing them into my bag. I can hear the vendor's cries as Nico hits him repeatedly, and I look down at my feet to see a few bloody teeth rolling on the cobblestone. They leave a trail of red as they travel, finally coming to rest under and around the cart. I imagine it will be difficult for the partially toothless man to eat from now on, but we cannot have him thinking we are weak.

I take more time, scrounging around the cart and find what I am looking for. The large pouch is made of brown suede and ties with a leather string; I hear the distinctive _clink_ of coins as I bounce the bag in my hand. This will do. I stuff the pouch into my bag and fill the rest of it with more meat and cheese, my mouth watering at the thought of dinner later.

I head over to Emil and Nico. The man is on the ground, now, huddled up against a building. My friends kick him, and I can see that they have managed to knock out more teeth.

"That's enough," I tell them, cringing at the vendor's bloodied and smashed face. The man cries, mumbling incoherently. Pathetic. I wave to my friends, who then surround the cart, and I stand back, watching as they kick it over and stomp it to pieces. The fire is next as Nico takes a lighter to it. The cart only smokes at first, but it manages to catch after a while, and we wait as the flames spread.

Finally, I am satisfied with our work and turn back down the alley, running with my bag tight on my back as Nico and Emil whoop and holler at our success. I can feel myself smile as the smoggy, city air hits my face.

We stop at the bakery near our apartment, knocking on the closed door until the baker lets us in, and greet him with "good evening" in Serkonan, which I learned from Emil and Nico. The baker is glad to see us and puts a loaf of unsold bread in my arms. He says something to my friends, and they laugh, leaving me out of their inside joke.

_This is the closest to family I'll get, _I remind myself. The Serkonans have accepted me, which is rare for a Gristian-Morlish mutt. I smile as they laugh.

There are certain people in this neighborhood that we do not steal from, and the baker is one of them. We are thieves, but the man is not very straight himself and had other professions before spending his days baking bread and pies. He puts in a good word for us with some of his customers, who can then hire us for a job. In return, we don't steal from him, but still, he is gracious enough to give us a loaf of bread when we stop by. He gives us all hugs before we leave, something that made me uneasy the first time he did it, and we head home.

We return to our apartment in the immigrant district feeling like kings. We feast like royalty as well, spreading out smoked meats and cheeses on our little, wobbly table. I set out the bread, and Nico gets water for us, but Emil has a bottle of wine hidden by his bed, and he brings it out. By the end of our meal, we are stuffed and tipsy, and I feel as though my stomach will burst. I grin and lean back in my chair.

"You know," Nico says, his accented voice made even more unintelligible by the cheese stuffed into his mouth. He pauses and swallows before continuing, thank the benevolent spirits. "I heard that there are more carts outside of the city. Ones _filled_ with food and supplies, coming in from all sorts of places." He is right. I've heard it too.

"And there are fewer guards around," I add. We can only rob carts in certain areas of Dunwall, as most are occupied by either the City Watch or Black Sally's thugs, and we are not on good terms with either of them. "It could be a good opportunity for us," I say. Emil shakes his head.

"Those carts are more dangerous than the small, local ones," he warns us. "Almost everyone carries a - "

We are interrupted by a knock on the door, and Emil stands to open it.

"Probably the neighbor, again, telling us to be quiet." He waves his hand. "I've told that bitch too many times that she's living in a cheap apartment with thin walls. Hell, I don't think half of the people here even pay rent. What do you expect?" He laughs.

"Last time she came over here was when Martin was with that girl, remember that?" Nico says. Of course he would bring up this story, _again_. I have it memorized, now, every truth and every... exaggeration.

"You mean, the whore?" Emil says, chuckling. I know that I am expected to tell it again. One thing I learned when living with Serkonans is that they love telling the same story over and over again, and it is funny every time.

"First of all," I start. "She was _not _a whore. Well, not in the professional way, at least." I draw loud laughter from my two roommates. "She was just some peddler's daughter looking for something a little more exciting. She sees me lift her father's pouch - "

"I thought you were supposed to be a good thief," Nico says. "Getting caught pickpocketing? I haven't gotten caught since I was about five. Actually, I don't think I even got caught then, but maybe when I was a baby..." I've gotten used to being interrupted while I'm speaking, as my roommates have made an art of it. They tease me in a friendly way, as is usual in Serkonan culture, and now I laugh easily at each interjection. However, that was not always the case. When I first met my friends, I faked smiles and laughter, not quite understanding what was humor and what was not. I learned that almost all of the time, it was humor.

I return to where I left off in the story once Nico and Emil have calmed down.

"...and follows me. I tell her that I'm not giving it back, and she says, 'I don't care about the pouch. I'm just looking for something _fun _to do, and you seem like the type who knows how to have fun.' " I don't remember the exact words she said to me, and I cringe at my impression of her.

"You're sure you didn't make this up, and that she wasn't just a whore?" says Emil. I ignore him, wanting to finish the story.

"So, I'm with her, and she's _so_ close, and it gets pretty loud with the bed banging against the wall and the noises _she's_ making, and someone knocks on the door. We spend all this time getting dressed," I say, "and I open the door, sweaty and panting, thinking she's complaining about the noise, and I'm ready to tell her off, but she just looks up at me and goes, 'Young man, do you happen to have a pencil?' I nearly laughed in her face. The _one_ time she doesn't complain about the noise. She _had _to have heard us." I burst into laughter with my mouth wide open, as though it is the funniest story in the world, and Emil and Nico join in, slapping their thighs and stomping their feet. It really _is_ contagious, and pretty soon our howling is genuine.

I hear a knock again over all the ruckus, and Emil has finally made it to the door.

"I can just imagine the look on your face, Martin," he says, looking back at me as he twists the knob. The door swings open. "Because I had the same thing - " He turns. "Who - " Before I can even see who is at the door, I hear a loud bang and the wall above my head crumbles as a hole appears in it. I fall back in my chair, plaster and paint chips falling onto my face, and I feel an emotion grip me. My heart beats fast; my breathing is shallow; I can feel sweat on the back of my neck.; I don't know what's happening; I can't see; _what's_ _happening? _I hear another bang... and it is over.

Nico stands by the open door with his pistol pointed at a bleeding body, and Emil is huddled on the ground, behind the door. I spit the dust from my mouth, coughing as I rise. I can see the body, now. It lies in a growing puddle of crimson blood, small and thin.

"Goddamn kid," Nico says. He gives me a grin, putting his pistol away. "Now, _that_ would've been sad if you were taken out by a little boy," he says. He approaches me and pats my back, sending dust flying into the air. "Lucky for you, he's a bad shot."

"And, most importantly, the hole isn't that big, so we got a pretty good hand." Emil chuckles. I ignore the hole and make my way toward the door. The body lies across the threshold, and the boy's eyes are still open. An old City Watch pistol lies next to him. I study him, and I can tell that he is Serkonan. Who is he? Why is he here?

_Does it really matter? He's dead. _I tell myself. My curiosity dissipates as I turn toward the wall and see the hole, which is not too far from where my head was a few moments ago. _I could've died_, I realize. _I could have died._ The feeling sinks in for an _instant_, but I lose my grip on it, and it flees, hopefully to never return.

"Emil, clean that up." Nico points toward the door.

"_You_ clean it up," Emil says.

"I already did my job. I shot him," Nico retorts.

"So, it's _your_ mess."

Suddenly, I am tired, and I look at the hole in the wall and the mess on the floor, annoyed. We were having _such_ a good night.

"Okay, okay." I hold my hands up to silence them, and Nico and Emil turn to face me. "She really _was _a whore." I can hear my roommates' laughter clearly as I make my way into the other room, and I am satisfied. My word is _always the last._


	5. Eighteen (2)

I'm supposed to be writing the next chapter of AMALAS, but every time I try to work on it, I write one of these instead. So, here's another one.

* * *

5

Eighteen

* * *

"I really shouldn't, Martin. I've sworn off liquor." The pudgy guard looks hungrily at the bottle I hold before him. "I'm tryin' to make my life better. I got a job, now," he says, gesturing at his City Watch uniform, as if I did not already know he was a guard. "I got money, now, and I met this girl - "

"I know you want it," I say. I scan his face, my eyes unblinking. He is trembling.

"Martin, I - "

"Just this once," I tell him. "One drink won't ruin your life, Barney. I know how strong you are." I smile and pat him on the back. The guard shakes his head.

"B - B - But," he stutters. "No... No..." He looks at the bottle as though it were the Outsider in his true form. "No..." Tears form in his eyes. I sigh, wondering how long this will take.

"Just a taste." I open the bottle, letting the sharp scent of alcohol waft toward him. He leans forward, slowly, and inhales. The bottle is in his hand, now. "Just _one_ sip," I tell him when he looks to me, unsure. He tips the bottle toward his mouth, and I hear the familiar _slosh_ of liquid as he takes a swig. I take the bottle from him, and he wipes his mouth.

"Okay," he says. "Just this once." He opens the gate, and I nod, shoving the bottle in his hand.

"Thanks, Barney," I say, putting my hand on his shoulder. "You're a real friend." He smiles, nervously and nods back.

Emil, Nico, and I head inside the building where we climb the stairs to the roof. It is a simple storage warehouse, filled with thousands of canisters of whale oil. We are not here for the oil, though. I stand on the edge of the roof, watching tiny masked figures roam as they patrol the area. There are not too many overseers in the backyard of the High Overseer's office, but a few of them have hounds on leashes, making the area look a bit less inviting to me.

I motion to Nico and Emil, and we jump the fence, landing on the roof of another building. The overseers hear nothing. We fall to our hands and knees, creeping along the edge of the backyard, watching warily as the overseers pass. There is one standing on a raised platform, leading inside of the building, and I worry that he will see us. My pistol is ready, just in case.

We were told that the bunkhouse is somewhere in this area, and I scan the buildings, trying to see as best as I can through windows and open doors. I groan. We should have asked our client to be a little more specific when describing the location of our destination.

"We need to split up," I whisper to my two companions. They nod, and I continue. "Emil, check the buildings to the left, Nico you go right, and I'll search the middle area. We'll meet on the roof of the warehouse. Try to be as quick as you can. If you take longer than half an hour..." That should be more than enough time. "...I will leave. Understand?" Emil and Nico nod once, and we are off. I find that I can crawl along the pipes and air ducts connecting the buildings to get from roof to roof. A tall building is first, and I make my way toward a large window, lowering myself down onto the ledge and carefully edging my way to the clear glass.

I smirk as I see the bunk beds. This job won't take long at all. I shimmy down a pipe and hit the ground, checking for any overseers who may spot me and open the door, peeking inside. It seems to be empty. I enter the building, closing the door behind me and find myself in a small room. In front of me is exactly what I am looking for, but to my left is something much more tempting.

A safe rests on a platform, and I tiptoe toward it, but I am dismayed when I see that it needs a combination. _Of course it does, Martin. It's a safe_. The large, metal box entices me, but I do not have time for it. I head to the mailboxes and run my finger along the numbers above each cubby. 017 has but one letter. It is simple and sealed with wax bearing the initials MAT. I grab the letter and stuff it into my jacket, looking yearningly at the safe one more time before heading to the door.

As I turn, I see the door open slowly, and I dash to the large room. I find that I can climb the bunks to a ledge leading to the locked window, and I ascend as quietly as I can. I hear whistling, and it gets louder as a lone overseer enters, stopping at his bunk and throwing a few papers on top of it before picking up a book that sits on his pillow. He looks around, and I hear him mumble to himself as he turns the pages. I can only make out a few words.

"Restrict... Roving Feet..." I hear. I can't make out the rest. I assume he is trying to memorize one of the strictures, as if any of them make any sense with all of their "thee" and "thy" nonsense. I turn to leave, sliding the lock on the window, but then, I get an idea.

The overseer has his back to me, his head buried in the book, and I creep from the ledge, sneaking up behind him, and before he can move, I have slipped his blade from its sheath. I press the sharp edge to the overseer's neck, and he trembles.

"Please," he says, dropping the book. "I - I'm new here."

"I thought you overseers were supposed to be trained in combat," I say casually, as though I am not threatening the man with his own blade.

"We are," he replies. "I just - I." A wet sniffle sounds from his nose. "I can't... I'm not...Please, I'm new here," he repeats.

"Relax," I tell him. "I only have one question for you. What is the combination for the safe in the other room?"

"The c-c-c," he stutters.

"The _combination_," I say forcefully.

"It's, um... it's..." I roll my eyes and sigh. I am lucky to get the most cowardly overseer in all of Dunwall, but he is going to make me late. I take his arm, noting that by the firmness and shape of it, this man is not weak. If he decides to fight, I could have a problem. However - he sniffles repeatedly now, his arm trembling in my hand - I would say there is a small chance of that happening.

"We're going to go open it together, okay?" I speak to him as if he is a child and lead him to the small room. We are in front of the safe now, and the overseer puts his fingers to the lock; 812 is the magic number, and the door pops open. Good, now I can be done with this stuttering excuse for an overseer. He looks ridiculous in his fierce mask, as he is now sobbing.

"I - I just wanted to prove - to my p-p-parents that I could - d-do - something right," the overseer says between sobs. _Great_, now he's telling me his life story. "Tell them... tell them..." he cries.

"Pull yourself together," I say, putting my finger to his face. He nods, and the crying stops. Well, he knows how to obey.

The safe is mostly empty, but I take the few coins and one ring that I find and drop them into my belt pouch, feeling thoroughly satisfied.

"Now," I tell the overseer. "You are going to go sit on your bed and read your book. You didn't see me, and nobody will know the safe has been robbed until later." I slam the door of the safe closed, and the overseer jumps. I look at him one more time, thinking that the Abbey must be desperate for new recruits. It seems that they will make anybody into an overseer.

"Thank you," I hear him whisper. "Thank you." I'm not sure if he speaks to me or some other entity. I almost want to shout at him that he was _nowhere _near to dying, unless he tried to run, of course, but I hold my tongue. If he is really so much of a coward that he breaks down when he feels his life is being threatened, well, with his job, he will probably die soon, anyway.

I head back to the large room and climb out of the window, making my way to my waiting companions.

"Look what I found," Nico says, holding up a bone charm. Leave it up to Nico to steal something he does not need, but I guess we are all that way.

"No, mine is better." Emil pulls a cloth napkin from his pocket and opens it, revealing an apricot tartlet. I have to laugh.

"I found the letter," I say. "In case you all were wondering." Emil and Nico nod in approval. I open my mouth to say more, but maybe it is better that I do not tell them.

We return to the gate, and already, Barney has finished the whiskey. He looks at the bottle longingly, swaying a bit, and spots me as I approach. He unlocks the gate; it squeals accusingly as he pulls it open.

"Say, Martin," Barney starts as he closes the gate. "You, uh, wouldn't happen to need to get anywhere else, would you? I..." I follow his eyes to the empty bottle he clutches. "I sure missed this, but I'm tryin' to save up my money, and if I start buyin' it again - I - I mean, I won't make it a habit again, drinkin', I just..." He trails off.

"Of course," I say, patting him on the shoulder. His eyes brighten. "Anything for a friend."


	6. Seven

I feel like I haven't worked on this in a while, even though it hasn't been that long. So, I hope I was able to capture the writing style of the other chapters. I've been trying to write about this event for a while, since I mentioned it in one of the earlier ones. I have finally written one that I'm willing to post after writing about four or five versions of it.

* * *

6

Seven

* * *

Teague. What kind of a name is Teague? Sometimes I think that whoever named me did it backward, and my name was supposed to be Martin Teague. Teague isn't a first name, is it?

Beall told me that my name is Morlish, so my parents were probably from Morley.

The older kids tell me that Morlish people sneak around the sewers in Dunwall, like rats, creeping up to the surface to kill unsuspecting people. I am tempted to believe them, because I have found that I really enjoy exploring the sewers. In certain areas, they smell, but I love how there are so many different ways and passages. I always have to make sure that I am paying attention to where I am, so I don't get lost. I'm good with directions, though, and I can memorize the way back from almost any place.

There are not just rats down in the sewers. There are roaches and flies, of course, but there are snakes too. I do not see them too often, but when I do, they fascinate me. I do not think anyone else at the orphanage has ever seen a snake before. Beall says that they do not live in the city, but I know better. It's fun knowing something that adults do not. They are not always right, like Beall tries to tell me.

I have never seen any Morlish people down there, but if they are as good at navigating the sewers as I am, they have probably found a good place to hide. They could be anywhere down there.

I have seen bodies too. I told the other boys, and they did not believe me. I said I would take them down there, but none of them have gone with me, yet. They all think I am lying and that I am just a wimp.

I do not know how dead bodies got down in the sewers. I have heard that people throw them in the river, but nobody has ever mentioned the sewers. They both have water, so maybe they're connected?

I cannot bring a dead body up from the sewers to show everyone, but a snake is small enough to sneak into the orphanage without it being noticed. At first I was only going to get the snake to show everyone so that maybe they would like me, but I realized that I could do better than that. I'm no better than a filthy dog if I try bribing people to like me. That's not what Gus does. He uses fear.

Gus is the biggest boy in the orphanage. He's fat, and he's tall, and he has two other boys who follow him around, making sure nobody messes with him. I remember reading a story in _Traditional Children's Tales of Gristol_ about a mouse who gets bullied by a bunch of cats. One day, the mouse challenges the lead cat to a fight. The cat thinks he will beat the mouse in no time, but he does not know that the mouse has a secret weapon. He ties a string to a large bucket of water and pulls it when the lead cat gets near. The cat gets soaked and runs away, and the other cats, never mess with the mouse again.

I am the mouse, and in my arms, is the bucket and string.

I have trapped my new friend inside a box, and I open the lid to peak inside. I can see his body moving, scale after scale hypnotizing me as they go from brown to dark brown to brown again. He is restless. I close the lid, trying to look through one of the holes I have drilled into the top of the box, but all I see is blackness. I can feel the heaviness of the snake inside the box as I hold it in my hands. I find that I am excited. Gus will know to never mess with me, again.

Beall teaches all of us how to read, and I caught on pretty fast. Now, I have read all of the books we have: _The Pirates of the Isles, The Adventures of Marty Hawk, Traditional Children's Tales of Gristol, Of Herbs and their Uses, The Mysteries and Peculiar Creatures of Pandyssia, Eldimire's Book of Puzzles and Riddles, The History of Dunwall Vol. 1-5, Strange and Abnormal Cultures of the Isles and Beyond, Savages of the Primitive World, _and _The Captain and the Giant Whale_. I have even read _The Litany on the White Cliff_, even though Beall tells me I will not understand it.

My favorite book, though, is _The Dangerous Animals of Gristol and their Attributes_. I learned about the viper, which is a venomous snake that can be found on Gristol. As soon as I saw the picture, I recognized it as one of the snakes that I sometimes see down in the sewers. According to the book, its bite will not kill, but it will hurt bad. It is _perfect_.

I have planned everything out, now, and it is time to set my plan into action. This is going to be a good day.

I find Gus over in the play corner. He stands on a tower of water-stained, wooden blocks, looking over some of the other children as they add on to the tower. His two cronies, Lex and Dusty, hit the smaller boys with sticks, telling them to go faster.

He sees me, his eyes locking onto mine, like a hawk to a mouse.

"You," he yells. "Minnow, get over here, and start building." His eyes widen as I stay in my place, giving him a friendly grin.

"I have something to show you," I say.

"Why do you think I would care about anything you have to show to me?" Gus declares, puffing out his chest. "Dusty, crown!" he orders. Dusty climbs up on the blocks, standing on his toes to place a crown made of twigs and string on Gus's head. "I am the king of the tower," he says. "'And I order you to start building, Minnow." He points at me, but still, I do not move. "Do I have to have my boys teach you a lesson?" Lex and Dusty, turn to me, rolling up their sleeves like the thugs in the streets and punching their fists into their palms.

"I promise you'll like it, Gus," I say, eyeing the two smaller boys closing in on me.

"_King_ Gus," corrects Gus.

"King Gus," I say, bowing. "I have a royal gift for you from the, uh, royal animal... maker." Gus looks at me, suspiciously.

"Royal animal maker?" he says with a smirk. "I've never heard of him."

"Well, you're looking at him right now. Your gift is right over there." I point at the box across the room. "If you would please follow me, I will present it to you." I bow again, and Gus jumps from the tower, knocking half of it down.

"I want those blocks stacked up by the time I get back, slaves," he says to the boys, shaking his fist. "Or _else_."

I lead Gus to the box.

"So, what is it?" he asks.

"Take a look," I reply, cracking open the box. Gus peers inside and gasps.

"No way!" he yells, his eyes widening. "Where'd you get that?" He tries to grab the box, but I put my hand on top of it.

"In the sewers, where I said the snakes were," I tell him. "I brought this here, because I have a plan for you, and if it works, I want to join your gang."

"You, Minnow? What makes you think I would let you join my gang?" Gus laughs and tries to snatch the box from me.

"Little Billy," I say. I have piqued Gus's interest. Good.

"Yeah?" he says. "What about him?"

The little mouse of a boy arrived here just this week after his mother abandoned him, sitting him right outside the front door and running off into the night. He is shy and quiet, and unlike most of us, he is domesticated. His size and manner have made him an easy target for Gus's bullying, but now he has taken to following Beall around to keep the bullies away. It's not like anyone is afraid of the old woman, but nobody likes getting punished.

"I know how you can get to him without Beall knowing it was you. You can hurt him _real_ bad, too." I give him a dark smile. "You take the snake while everyone's asleep and put it into his bed. When he rolls over on it, it'll bite him." I giggle. "Isn't that a good plan?"

"I guess it's okay," Gus says, but I can see the excitement in his eyes. "I'll do it, and if it works, then _maybe_ I'll let you into the gang, though I don't know how I'd make you useful." Good enough.

"That sounds great," I tell him, holding out my hand. We shake hands, like the adults do. "Tonight." I say. Gus nods and heads back to his castle, where one of the smaller boys has fallen off the tower and is crying. I do not see Beall, so she must not hear him.

I smile with excitement. After tonight, Gus will never bother me again, and if he does, well, maybe that snake will end up in _his_ bed.

Now, the next step is to buy the snake some time to _really_ make Gus think. I have gotten pretty good at pickpocketing and lockpicking. I practice on the other kids, swiping marbles and bottle caps from their pockets. One boy used to carry a small piece of a blanket with him all the time, and I slipped it from his arms as he slept. He cried and refused to eat for days. The most fun is stealing from Beall. She sometimes confiscates items from the other children, putting them in her pocket and then locking them in her desk drawer. So far, I have a small pocket knife, a needle, an old piece of chewing gum, a small piece of blanket, one of the doctor's tools, some sort of powder in a small bottle, and a shard of glass. I even managed to take a pencil from behind Beall's ear as she rocked back and forth in her wooden chair. She didn't notice as I reached up and grabbed the end of the pencil as she rocked backward. I've gotten good at it, now. I used to get caught in the beginning, but I never got in too much trouble.

Taking the skeleton key from Beall is not difficult at all. We have all eaten dinner, and she has fallen asleep in her rocking chair. I use my pocket knife to cut the ribbon holding the key from around her neck, and a few seconds later, I can unlock any door in the orphanage. I can also lock them.

Beall does not seem to notice that the key is gone, and she sends us all to bed. There is the usual whining that comes from most of us at bedtime. Why go to bed when we are not sleepy? As always, most of us get in our beds, and the old woman fights with some of the more active boys. I always love seeing her frail body trying to control the flailing limbs of a screaming seven-year-old. Somehow, she always manages to get every single boy to calm down and go to sleep. Maybe she just exhausts them all. Then, she heads to her own bedroom, saying goodnight to us before she leaves.

I wait about ten minutes before getting out of my cot. Gus sees me, and I gesture for him to lay down. He stays in bed, and I sneak out of the room. Beall's room is down the hall, and I can see that there is no light shining from under the door. Hopefully, that means she is asleep. I approach her door and stand on my toes, stretching my arm to get the key up to the hole. I manage to reach it and turn it as slowly as I can. The door locks with a distinguishable _click_, but Beall does not stir. Now, it is time for the fun part.

Gus waits for me to return, and I motion for him to go toward the box. I have left it close to his cot, and he sneaks toward it. I sit back on my cot, watching and waiting. I smirk at Gus's eagerness to open the box. This is almost too good to be true. I expect the snake to bite him as soon as he opens it, but it stays put. Gus reaches his hand in quickly and picks up the snake. He looks at me, and I get a sudden, naughty idea. I doubt it will work, but I motion for Gus to wrap the snake around his arm. The snake is agitated, but Gus actually manages to hold it in the right way so that it will not bite him. However, he is not too smart and starts to wrap the snake's body around his forearm. I am very surprised that he has made it this far, and he even gets to take a few steps toward Billy's cot before the snake bites him.

Gus gasps in surprise and pain, and a few seconds later, he is on the floor, screaming. Everyone is awake, now, and someone lights a lantern. I try to make my face like the others'.

"Someone help him," I say. Nobody moves. Gus is shrieking, and to my delight, I realize that the snake is pinned under Gus's arm, its body still wrapped around it. It bites him again. This is turning out even better than I thought it would. The snake strikes again, and I put an evil smile on my face, hoping that Gus will catch a glimpse of it. However, I think he is too busy with the snake.

"It hurts!" he says between screams. "Get it off!" He is crying, and his eyes are red as tears run down his face. The bites are already starting to swell, and the snake is not done with him, yet.

I hear pounding from the hallway and remember to stash the skeleton key away in my box. Nobody is looking, so I peek under my cot, quickly slipping the key under the lid of the wooden box.

"What's happening?" I hear Beall yell from her room. "Let me out of here! Children?" Gus's screams are nothing but a high squeal now, and we all watch from our cots as he squirms on the ground. I do not even know how many times he has been bitten anymore, but finally, he thinks to yank the snake from his arm. He hurls it away, and the boys shout in wonder as the snake slithers quickly out the door.

The banging in the hall gets louder, and I hear something hit the floor. Beall comes sprinting in the door and sees Gus.

"What _happened_?" she says, kneeling by Gus's side, trying to calm him. Nobody answers.

"It was a snake," Little Billy says, finally.

"_What?_" Beall exclaims. "Boys, is this true?" The rest of us nod. "Okay," Beall says, trying to get Gus to lay still. "I need to go get the doctor. Wait here, children. I'll be back soon." She rushes out the door in her nightgown, and the rest of us continue to watch the show.

However, it seems to take a turn for the worse.

Gus starts to wheeze, and I notice that his eyes have swollen shut. Still, he cries. He is sweating, too.

"Hey, he wet himself!" one of the boys yells, and we all laugh, but I find that I am worried. The book never said anything about _that. _I am tempted to go find the book to read about the viper again, but I cannot do it now. His face continues to swell, and I laugh along with the other boys, calling him puffer fish and baby face.

Beall arrives with the doctor.

"Go to the common room, all of you," Beall instructs, and the boys moan and complain. "Now!" she says, and we slowly make our way out of the room.

We wait for hours, just listening to Gus's screams. They get weaker after a while, and I can hear Beall's voice. She does not sound happy. Eventually, we lose interest, and some of the boys go to play, but most of us fall asleep on the floor. I worry that I will have fleas in the morning.


	7. Twenty-One

I started writing this one a while ago, and when I came back to it, I realized that I didn't remember what I wanted to happen, and that I didn't write it down, silly me. So, I can't say this chapter really has a point, except for revealing a few things about the past. It's just a memory, for the most part, which I guess is the point of this entire story. It's just a bit more mundane than the other memories Martin's had so far.

Thank you, readers and reviewers!

* * *

7

Twenty-One

* * *

"So, then, he tells him to wrap the snake around his arm." Dusty and Lex stand in front of me, telling Victor Jarvis of the snake incident that happened while we were in the orphanage together. "Martin's tough, I'll tell you that," Dusty says. "Nobody messed with him after the snake, and then he started working for Black Sally. Damn, we were all jealous." Jarvis stares at me with gray eyes.

"You don't say. So, you're a sly one, huh? _And_ you don't let people mess with you, either," he says. I nod. "Well, good. We need somebody with some brains around here. I got four guys, and there's not a brain among them."

Jarvis's other two men, Brody and Boone stand behind him eying me. Do I see jealousy? Contempt? I make a note to watch out for them.

"What made you come out here? I thought someone like you would enjoy working for Black Sally," Jarvis asks me. I answer without even a moment's hesitation.

"I just wanted more independence," I tell him, smoothly. "It's easy to get forgotten when you're one out of hundreds of thugs." Jarvis nods, looking into my eyes. They show nothing but truth.

"I s'pose it is." He pats me on the back. "Well, there's only five of us, here - six, if I take you in - but don't be fooled into thinking I'm soft. You do what I say. Understand?"

"Yeah, I got it," I reply, more than slightly dismayed. I know there's a way to get around Jarvis, though. There's always a way. I nod politely.

Jarvis agrees to let me join the group, and so I take a little walk to get myself acquainted with the area, eventually finding my way to the edge of the forest.

It is strange working for a boss again. Jarvis is not nearly as well-known as Black Sally, and we're basically just a small group of highway robbers, and not a gang, but I'm used to giving the orders and coming up with the plans. Asking permission is not something I've had to do in a while.

I take a look at my new home. I like the country. The air is fresh, it's quiet, and it gives me a feeling of peace. I let it soak in for a few minutes before exploring my surroundings again. I don't know how I'm going to survive out here. It's the noise and the crowds that make me love the city. It's alive. The country is full of crops and grass with a few forests, and the wind only gives them the _appearance_ of life. The open space makes me feel small, and I squirm as I become more uncomfortable.

_I'll be alright once I start working_, I tell myself. I head back into the woods toward the cabin.

I have to say, I do like the "bandit hideout" feel of the cabin. It's like something out of a book. I figure it's just another cabin in the woods, just like any other cabin, though, as I've never had the chance to see one, because, well, I've lived in the city for my entire life.

The whole crew sits around a large cast iron pot over a fire, and Jarvis stirs whatever is inside of it with a large spoon.

"Hey!" Lex waves at me. He has bread in his mouth. I approach the scene and sit next to Lex on a short stool, and my mouth waters as I inhale the savory scent of the meaty stew bubbling in the pot. It is thick, full of root vegetables and large chunks of tender beef. Jarvis sprinkles some herbs into it.

"I hope you like beef stew," he says.

"It smells amazing," I tell him. I imagine that this is how a home-cooked meal smells. The real kind, not the dry, burnt stuff that Beall fed us every day when I was younger.

I look up and see Boone staring at me. He has breadcrumbs in his beard, and I think he wants to say something to me, but he stays silent; I don't think he's looking to pay me a compliment.

The sun starts to set, and we pass around wooden bowls, helping ourselves to the rich stew. I pile it into my bowl, and it is thick and hot. We break pieces off of a large loaf of bread.

"So, what's your story?" Jarvis asks in my direction. I swallow a mouthful of stew.

"I - it's not very interesting," I reply.

"I don't know," Jarvis starts. "That snake story was pretty damn entertaining. You do anything else like that?" _You mean accidentally kill someone?_

"No," I say. I shovel more stew into my mouth, hoping that Jarvis will move on. Luckily, Boone has the mind to try to intimidate me with a tale.

"My first kill," he says. "Was this vendor at the market. I was starvin' and tried to swipe some bread from the baker. He caught me, so I took out my knife and just..." he makes a stabbing gesture and grunts. "...Right in the stomach. I figure I already got _that _far, so I kept stabbin' him, and he bled to death." Boone chuckles. "I ate bread and cake 'til I threw up and then ate some more." I laugh loudly along with everyone, mostly trying to enjoy the stew. I would rather not hear all of their stories. I've heard first kill stories, but something about the environment just makes the subject feel out of place. I figure they are going to keep going, though, and try to relax.

Brody goes next, telling us about a Lower Watch guard he shot.

"What about you, Jarvis?" Dusty asks. Jarvis clears his throat.

"Now, this was a long time ago," he says. "In Dunwall, back before Big Sally was king. Well, the one in charge was called Mikey Malice. He was this little short fella, but he was mean and could pack a punch, I tell ya. I saw him knock a man's teeth out, all of them, in one hit. He could hardly even reach up to touch the guy's head, but he made it to his jaw, all right. Well, Mikey's in his warehouse, and in walks this little punk kid. They get ones like this all the time and usually just put them to work, loading crates into wagons, but Mikey sees something in this kid's eyes.

"'Now, son,' he says. 'I want you to go look for the most helpless person you can find. You kill him - or her - and bring me back his head.' The boy just nods and walks away. Mikey doesn't even offer him anything for it. So, the kid comes back the next day.

"'Sorry I took so long,' he says. 'But I wanted to make sure I found the best one.' Then he takes the head out of his bag, and it's a baby. 'Took it right from its momma,' he says." Jarvis smiles proudly. "And that was how I got into Mikey Malice's gang. _Also_, it was my first kill." We laugh and clap, cheering him on. The stew is delicious, and I help myself to more.

We sit around the fire for another hour, telling stories of our pasts, as the sun goes down. I brag a bit about some of my tight getaways, and my stories seem to impress Jarvis. It is dark, now, and our fire illuminates the clearing.

"We should head to bed," Jarvis says. Brody and Boone agree, standing and stretching their arms.

"But it's early," I say.

"You'll see," starts Jarvis. "This job can get tiring. I love robbing people, but even that makes me exhausted if I have to do it all day. So, I'm going to bed. You all can do what you'd like. Just be up by six." Lex shrugs at me and follows the others inside.

"I'm going to take a walk," I tell Dusty. He nods and turns to extinguish the fire.

It's a dark night, and the forest has come to life with the sounds of crickets and other unknown animals. I pick up a lantern, circling the clearing. I find that I'm excited for tomorrow. I've never robbed anything as big as a supply wagon, and I can't even imagine what we'll find inside. I am full of energy and wish I could start, now, but Jarvis says that most people travel during the day.

The clearing is not very interesting, and I decide to go inside. Maybe I'll be able to sleep if I lay down. The light inside the cabin looks inviting, and I step toward it, but movement near the ground makes me stop. It's right in front of me, and I hope it isn't what I think it is. I shine the light on it, and sure enough, a viper, far too solid to be a ghost, slithers right over my foot. I stand still, and it stops, and for a few moments, we are the only two beings in existence. It is just the snake and me. I can hear my breath, now, and it seems too loud, as though it drowns out the sudden silence around me, but the snake moves again, and I am back to the real world. Once the viper's tail hits the ground, I dash to the cabin, closing the door behind me. I can hear the familiar sound of footsteps in the other room, and my heart slows. I feel as though I was spooked, like a horse, but unlike an animal, it was not the snake's bite that I feared_._


	8. Seven (2)

8

Seven

* * *

Anaphylaxis. I don't know what it means, but the doctor says it to Beall as he leans over Gus's body. I peek into the room in which they had put his cot only two days ago.

"You can never tell if they will have a reaction, until they're bitten," says the doctor. "Had he been exposed to the viper's venom before?" Beall does not answer. "Well, I've heard that adders have been found in the sewers, but I've never seen one above ground, much less in a building. Perhaps you should find someone to check for more. They may have been here for quite some time." Beall holds a handkerchief to her eye and sobs. The doctor sighs. "Usually these bites aren't so bad, but they can turn fatal in children. Maybe if I had been called sooner - " He stops as Beall wails loudly. "I'm sorry, Ms. Beall, I didn't mean that. I'm sure you got to me as fast as you could. I know you have other children to take care of." He timidly pats her on the back and waits for her to compose herself.

"Thank you, doctor, for all you've done," she says. "About the payment - "

"We'll discuss it later," says the doctor. "I'll come by next week." He heads toward the door, and Beall nods.

"Thank you, again, doctor. I will see you to the door." I scurry away as the door opens and sit in the common room, pretending to study a deck of cards. Most of the children seem unfazed by Gus's attack, but I notice that they all avoid me, Lex and Dusty especially. I sometimes catch them whispering to the other boys, glimpsing occasionally in my direction.

Beall enters the room with the doctor, and she points him toward the door.

"Children," she announces, sniffling. "Why don't you all come sit by me?" She settles into her rocking chair, and we slowly make our way to her, some of the busier children straggling behind, looking back reluctantly at their projects. I know that not all of us are here. Beall is old, and she is not good at keeping track of us. As long as we're back by bedtime, we can sneak out any time during the day. I do it all the time, preferring to leave through a broken part of the fence in the backyard.

We all sit around her chair, and Beall takes a moment to breathe.

"Gus passed away this morning. He was very sick from the snake bites. I am very sorry. All of you are brothers. You are family, and losing family can be very difficult. I know many of you have been concerned and may be very sad right now. It is perfectly fine to cry, and if any of you need to talk, I am here."

"Where'd he go?" asks one of the boys.

"What does 'passed away' mean?" another wonders.

"It means he's dead, stupid," says Dusty. The boys gasp.

"Can we see his body?" says the first boy, his eyes shining. The others chime in.

"No!" Beall says, outraged. "No, you may _not_. This is a very sad occasion, boys. Your _brother_ has died."

"He was mean to me," Little Billy mumbles.

"Me too!" yells another boy. Some of them laugh, and others just look confused. Dusty and Lex seem a bit upset, but they are not sad. Both of them look over at me. They seem to be trying to tell me, or ask me, something.

"That's enough, boys!" Beall raises her voice. "There will be no more of this talk. We do not speak ill of the dead. We must be respectful." She huffs and rises from her chair. "I have a headache, children, so please behave yourselves, and I will be back soon to serve lunch." She strides from the room, her skirt trailing behind her.

The boys have stopped laughing, now, and most of them give me frightened looks. Lex and Dusty approach me.

"Min - I mean Tea - Martin," says Lex. I study them coolly.

"What do you want?" I ask them, leaving my face blank.

"Can we be in your gang?" Lex continues. _My_ gang? I don't even have a gang, but I guess I'm entitled to one, now that I've killed off Gus. I grin. Maybe this isn't so bad, after all.

"I _guess_," I say, nonchalantly. "What skills can you offer?"

"Well, we're both good at fighting," Lex says. "I like hitting the best, and Dusty has little, sharp teeth, so he's good at biting." Dusty bears his teeth, his lips peeling back over his gums. They _do_ look sharp. "We can help you out with stuff or do stuff for you..." He stops to think. "...or steal stuff and keep secrets. We can do that, too." _Oh, I see._

"Did Gus have you keep secrets?" I ask them, narrowing my eyes.

"Oh yeah, all kinds of them," Dusty says, eagerly. "He stole one of Beall's brassieres from her room. He said it was just for fun, but we saw him wearing it, sometimes." He giggles.

"And we saw him cry, once, after a dog knocked him into the mud," says Lex. "He was afraid of dogs, even the little ones." I grin. I wish I had known this when Gus was still alive.

"Okay, you can be in my gang," I tell them. "And you stay loyal to me until the day I die, just like you did with Gus." They nod, and my heart jumps. Suddenly, I'm looking forward to the future.

I play cards with my new thugs for the rest of the day, and it is time to go to bed. I test Lex and Dusty out by telling them to lock Little Billy in the toy chest, and they do it quickly and efficiently. Billy hardly has any time to scream before he's closed in there. I hear him weakly pounding on the lid and crying, and I wander innocently into the bedroom, Lex and Dusty right behind me. They sleep on either side of me, kicking my usual neighbors out of their cots, and I relax, looking up at the ceiling and enjoying the sound of Beall struggling with one of the boys, but soon my mind starts to wander to Gus and the viper. I turn my head toward the place where Gus was bitten, and the memory of that night rushes into my head. I close my eyes, trying to block the image out, but it is there, too. I can hear him screaming and pleading as the rest of us laugh, completely indifferent to his pain. I wonder where the snake is now. I never want to see it again. The joy of the day slips from me, and I am left feeling empty.

Beall finally gets the boy to bed and finds Little Billy. After walking him to his cot and comforting him for a while as he cries - he says he misses his "mommy", and I roll my eyes - she heads toward the door.

"Goodnight, boys," Beall says, turning out the lantern, and now, the room is dark. I turn over to sleep, but I can't stop thinking about the snake. Its image forms in front of my open eyes in the darkness, and I cry. Like a baby, I cry myself to sleep only to have the snake greet me in my dreams, slithering over Gus's swollen corpse.


	9. Twenty-One (2)

Is this chapter too short? I tried to add to it, but I just felt like I was adding unnecessary stuff just to make it longer, so I deleted it. Let me know. Thank you, readers and reviewers, and I apologize for flooding you with so much writing in the past few days.

Also, even though we never saw any horses in the game, I'm going to say that some people travel in horse-drawn wagons out in the country.

* * *

9

Twenty-One

* * *

I think I am going to be sick. The scene is that of carnage and destruction, something that can only be done by very cruel men. I am one of them, and I stand among the other five.

The day is hot, and my skin swelters in the sun. I can see heat rising from the ground, and we are all sweating. The smell of death wafts thickly through the air, never thinning, even as it spreads, and the other men are laughing and rummaging through the wagon. Usually, this would be my favorite part of a robbery, looking through all the loot, but the blood and the bodies are a bit off-putting.

Why did I fire the gun? I should have just let Lex or Dusty do it. They were standing near me, but I wanted to prove myself to some nobody-bandit. Or maybe I just didn't care, until I actually took a good look at my target.

"He's running," Jarvis had said. "Shoot him!" I turned and shot without a moment's hesitation, but I wish I had hesitated. Then, maybe I would have seen him a little better.

His body lies a little ways down the dirt road; the boy didn't make it too far. He is thin, face-down in muddy blood. The bag he carries on his back is ripped, and some of the items have fallen onto the road. I see a toy horse, a pencil, a wooden compass, and a melted piece of caramel candy, wrapped in wax paper. I take the horse and the compass, stuffing them into my bag, and leave the rest.

_I turn and raise my pistol, my heart beating quickly in the middle of all the action. All in that moment's time, I can hear screaming. A woman screams behind me, and someone is yelling at her. A man moans in pain._

_"No," someone keeps saying. "No, no, no!" My pistol is aimed at the moving target. It is slow, and I can shoot it without even thinking. I squeeze the trigger, and that is when I realize..._

I join the others at the wagon, where the bodies of a man, a woman, and a horse lie. The horse is still attached. I step around the blood, sticking my head inside the wagon with everyone else. What is this junk worth?

Lighters, cigarettes, little candies, chewing gum, and other trinkets. The man must have been a peddler. Boone has found the suitcases and opens them, throwing assorted clothes onto the ground, and Brady studies the man's shoes.

"These are worse than mine," he says, frowning.

_I see the man first, as the wagon passes by. Jarvis shoots the horse, and the man and woman go flying off the front. The horse is panicked, and Jarvis shoots it dead. Now, it is time for the rest of us to strike._

The flies have already started to gather around the bodies, and I take my eyes off of them. I need to do my job. I don't know what's gotten into me. I knew that people were going to die, didn't I?

I guess I didn't realize that _everyone_ we robbed would die.

_The man is the second to die. He is shot in the stomach, and Brady takes his gun from him before he can even reach for it. Jarvis and Boone have the woman, and she shrieks as they drag her behind the wagon. I help Lex turn the wagon on its side, while Dusty tries to detach the horse from it. He does not know how to do it, though._

We all reach into the wagon, stuffing our bags with greedy hands. Most of it we'll give to a contact in Dunwall, who will sell it. I don't know him, but Jarvis says he can get good prices for even the cheapest junk.

I want to be excited. I was so eager to start last night, but for some reason I am being... difficult. Whatever I am feeling, I need it to leave. It is only holding me down.

I'm probably just angry because Nico isn't here to do the dirty work for me. I hope he misses me too.

"I hope you're not planning on cooking that for dinner, tonight," I say to Jarvis, pointing at the horse. His gray eyes lock onto mine.

"No, of course not," he says lightly. "Because _you're_ the one who's cooking it." We laugh, and I relax a bit. Just a bit, though.

_Something jumps out of the back of the wagon as we tip it, running around the opposite side. _

_"He's running," Jarvis yells. "Shoot him!" My pistol is out, and I am ready. I turn my head to the right, straightening my arm to aim. The target moves straight down the road, and I know this will be an easy hit. There is chaos behind me, but I pay no attention to it. It is nothing but useless, meaningless noise. Right now, it is only me and my target. I hold my breath and - no. No. NO. _

_Not again._

My bag is filled, and I wait for everyone else to finish. Lex holds something in his hand, turning to me.

"Here, Martin, try one of these," he says. "They're the cigarettes that the rich people smoke." I take it from Lex's fingers, and light it, inhaling smoothly. The smoke is flavorful and strong, and I look at the smoking paper in my hand, thinking back to my first cigarette. I hated it the first time. I remember wondering why anyone would smoke, but I kept on smoking, and after a while, it stopped hurting my throat, and I started to enjoy it. Yeah, I guess that's how things are. Even killing. It's difficult the first few times, but after I keep doing it for a while and get used to it, it will be nothing. I might even start enjoying it. Killing is just like smoking cigarettes. Right. _Just_ like cigarettes.


	10. Eight (2)

I made up lots of slang for this chapter, so I thought I'd go over some of the words. Since there is plenty of xenophobia in Dunwall, these words are all pretty derogatory, so most people won't call anyone these names to their face. So, as you already know Minnow = Gristian slang for Morlish person. I made up some new ones, including: Toaster = Gristian slang for Serkonan, Ice-eater = Gristian slang for Tyvian, Roaster = Serkonan name for all non-Serkonans (except for Pandyssians), and Sea Cucumbers or "kyukes" for short = Pandyssian. I made up a few other words and expressions, but they're all pretty easy to figure out.

In this chapter, I wanted to show Martin as a child and his first reactions and thoughts about meeting strange people that he has never seen before. He is a kid, so his observations aren't entirely "PC", but it's something I wanted to touch on, because, seriously, if I could count the number of times I had a little boy or girl follow me around just staring at me with wide eyes when I was in Japan... But I just found myself wondering what they were thinking as they stared.

Anyway, I find it interesting to think that before Pandyssia was discovered, the people in the Isles thought that there were _only_ people who looked like them. In the _entire_ world. Not only that, but most people on Gristol have only known one culture, and this could be to the point that they - the common man, at least - don't even see it as "culture", but just as what is "normal". If they see anything from another culture, it is considered to be "abnormal".

Also, in my mind Pandyssia = Africa, so that's what I'm going with here.

This chapter is longer than usual, but not horribly long. Please let me know what you think, and I would like to say "thank you" to all of you readers and reviewers.

* * *

10

Eight

* * *

I arrive at the warehouse on Spink Street, my eyes bright as day in the gloomy hours of the early morning. A couple of thugs roam the junkyard outside and two more guard the doors. They eye me menacingly as I approach them, trying my best to look calm and collected.

"Wha'dya want, kid?" says the thug on the right, reaching up a beefy hand to scratch under his arm.

"I'm lookin' for Mickey," I say, trying to sound like them. "He told me to be here." The guards make eye contact and grin.

"Oh, the deliv'ry boy. Go 'round back." The guard points his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of "back". Without saying another word, I put my hands in my pockets and turn on my heel toward an alley that I hope leads to the back of the warehouse.

I don't want anybody to know, but I spent at least an hour this morning figuring out what I was going to wear. I don't have much to choose from, but this will be my first time meeting Black Sally, and I want to look like I belong here, _but_ I don't want it to look like I spent a long time figuring out what to wear. What kind of thug cares what he's wearing?

I settled for a white undershirt, tucked into brown pants with suspenders. I chose the brown ones with a patch and a few small holes, so it won't look like I tried to look nice, today. I topped off the outfit with a gray newsboy cap that I swiped from my favorite newsboy at the market. I can't help it. He just makes robbing him so easy and fun too, as his face turned bright red as he huffed after me, following me into an alley. I turned to face him, putting the cap on my head and curling my hands into fists.

"Come and get it if you want it so bad," I said to him, and the boy stopped, looking at me nervously with his eyes tearing up, and turned to walk away, his head drooping down toward the ground. I called him a "titty-baby" and told him to go tell his _mommy_ on me, and he ran away, sobbing and sniffling.

Every time I mess with the newsboy, it makes me happy that I'm an orphan and not some spoon-fed no-hair.

The empty space behind the warehouse is filled with more junk and thugs, and I look around for Mickey. He is not too hard to find, as he is the best-dressed person here, and I approach him as he smokes a cigarette by the back door.

"You made it, kid," Mickey says, giving me a slight grin. He pulls a cigarette from his jacket pocket, holding it out in front of me. "D'you want a smoke before we get started?" He chuckles, spying the nauseous look on my face and pats me on the back. "No reason to start so early, kid."

I follow him inside the warehouse, and I eagerly scan the room for Black Sally.

"She's out," Mickey says, as if reading my mind. "Her office is up there." He points to a door directly off the stairs on the second floor balcony. "Don't bother her, kid. You hear me? You only talk to her if she talks to you. So, if she don't, you keep your head down, and if you need anything, you come to me." So, I won't be meeting her. I slouch. "Kid, you're lucky to have this job. Don't get all pouty on me, alright?" I nod. I don't want to seem ungrateful, but I am disappointed.

"I've always wanted to do something like this," I tell Mickey, looking up at him.

"Good," says Mickey. "Deliverin' packages across town isn't most people's dream job." I almost slouch and scowl again but catch myself. Delivering packages? Mickey seems to be good at reading me, because he speaks up, again. "What, you thought you'd be roughin' some folks up on your first day? You're _eight._" He chuckles, most likely at my naivete. I find myself getting annoyed at the man I admired only days ago. "You got some time before you'll be livin' the glorious life of a thug, collectin' money to give up to your boss, and guardin' shipments, and maybe gettin' to stab someone occasionally. Enjoy your life as a kid now, kid, 'cause you're makin' easy money." I sigh and nod, my mind wandering to the small knife in my pocket, which will probably stay there for a while. It's such a shame. I want to _stab_ someone. I want to be someone that _nobody_ will want to mess with. Can I really become that by delivering packages? I decide to let Mickey know a little about my past, just in case he doesn't think I'm tough enough for the gang.

"Did I tell you about - "

"Okay, listen kid," Mickey interrupts, gesturing toward a large, wooden crate. I shut my mouth, scowling. "You're gonna wheel this over to the Immigrant District. Take the back alleys, and don't worry about gettin' robbed. It won't happen, but when you get to the Immigrant District, take the main roads and stay clear of any large groups of minnows, toasters, or ice-eaters, okay? 'Cause it's not exactly our turf. You're gonna go to the oldest part of the district, number fourteen on First Street. Yeah, _that_ old, kid. It's abandoned, but you're gonna go down the steps to the basement. You ever heard of The Basements? Where all the kyu - er - Pandyssians live?"

There are a series of underground basements and cellars, all connected by tunnels in the Immigrant District, one of the oldest, and the most neglected, part of town. I can remember reading in _A History of Dunwall Vol. 2: Infrastructure _that the founders quickly learned that basements were not ideal in a part of the city that sat so close to the sea, as they flooded easily, the water sometimes seeping up through the ground. The result was a damp, moldy mess, and the basements were quickly boarded up and abandoned.

The Basements, as they are called now, are supposed to be occupied by free Pandyssians, mostly the children and children's children of escaped slaves. I always thought, like most people, that it was a myth, but Mickey looks at me seriously.

"P-Pandyssians?" I stutter. Curiosity strikes me, and I find that I'm at least mildly excited for my trip, now.

"Yeah, kid. A bunch of kyukes," Mickey replies. "Now, are you gonna take this or not? I don't have time to be standin' around all day." I grab a hold of the cart, tipping it toward me. It is heavy, and I realize that I cannot see over it. I stick my head out to the side, trying to figure out the optimal position for wheeling the cart and seeing where I am going at the same time.

"You got it, kid?" Mickey asks.

"Yeah, I got it," I tell him confidently, trying not to wince as the heavy crate tips toward me. I can't embarrass myself on my first day. I'm supposed to be made for this place.

"Alright. One of them will have a package for you. Wheel that back, and you'll get paid." Mickey, turns, ready to head off to a different task.

"Okay," I reply, but he has already started to walk away.

I spot a pair of large doors at the front of the warehouse and head toward it with the cart. The two thugs at the exit laugh at me as they stand on either side of the doorway. I put the cart down, making my way around it to open the doors and manage to push them almost halfway, before my arms can't go any wider. I don't see any door stoppers, and they follow me, slamming closed as I back into the building. I glare at the two thugs who seem to be enjoying watching me as I try to solve my problem. I push the cart, ramming it into the doors and leaning with my weight against it, but the closed doors will not open, unless I turn the knobs on them. I open them, trying to pull the cart toward me, but there is nothing to hold onto, so I decide to turn the cart around so that I can pull it by its handle.

"Hal, Bugs, for _fuck's_ sake, open the door for the kid," I hear Mickey's voice shout from the back. But I _almost _had it. I sigh. The two thugs hold the doors open for me, and I push the cart over the threshold, grunting in displeasure.

"There ya go, kiddy," one of the thugs says, patting me on the head. I give him a dirty look and turn away, focusing on the cart, but I can hear both of the thugs snickering behind me.

I feel frustration grip me, something that I have not felt in a while, and I am reminded of the orphanage when Gus still ruled. I don't know what I was expecting, but here, I am just another child.

I make it safely across town and through the Immigrant District. I don't even have to ask for directions, though I do get lost a few times. By the time I arrive at the apartment building, I am sweaty and exhausted, and it is not even noon.

The door to the building opens easily, and there is just enough room for the cart and crate to get through the frame, but the stairs are a problem.

_I can do this_, I tell myself after considering heading down to the basement to ask someone to help me. _I'm not a child._ The cart slants forward as I try to roll it down the stairs. I am not strong enough to keep it tilted toward me, and the box slips off the cart, clunking its way down to the basement. I curse.

"Who is that?" I hear a voice say.

"Mickey Smith sent me," I call from the stairs. A head pops into view, and I jump. I have heard that Pandyssians have dark skin, but this is the first time I have ever seen one.

"Well, bring your cart down, little boy," he says, waving impatiently. He doesn't seem to be angry about the crate, which is upside-down but still intact. I take the cart downstairs, and the man helps me put the crate back onto it. We do not speak again, and he does not ask me my name, nor does he give me his. He opens a metal door and points into it.

"Just keep heading back," he tells me, and I nod, rolling the cart into the mythical home of the Free Pandyssians: The Basements.

This place is no paradise, and I wonder if the Pandyssians regret coming to Dunwall, instead of just staying in the mines. Many of them are thin, half of the children seem sick, and most have a dry cough. The Basements seem like a pretty vile in which place to live, but there is nowhere else for them to go. _Nobody_ wants the Pandyssians.

I can tell that there aren't many of them, and the old ones, who are still alive, have flesh decorated with deep scars. An old woman missing an eye and an arm glares at me from an old rocking chair as I look around for a friendly face. All I can see is distrust. Their eyes look at me accusingly, as though I am responsible for their strife. I want to yell at them, tell them to keep their eyes to themselves and that I'm not the one who enslaved them, but I realize that I, too, am staring.

I'd rather they'd stayed back in Pandyssia. They're so strange looking, with their dark skin and their flat, wide faces, and I detect a rotten smell coming off of them. I guess I'm used to that, though, living around orphans and bums, who smell exactly the same. Still, looking at these people both captivates and unnerves me. They're nothing I could ever imagine.

I roll the unwieldy box over the damp floor, my shoes getting wet as I step into black water that sometimes reaches up to my ankles. The entire place is musty and stale, and I feel as though I inhale death with every breath. Black mold crawls over the cracked stone and brick walls, covering it like damp, living flesh. I have been to dirty places before, as I enjoy exploring the sewers, but this is different. There are so many people living in this enclosed space, where there is no relief from the damp floor or the rotten air.

The Basements go on for a long time, as I keep walking "back", as the man told me to do. Finally, I find myself in a supply room, and a man sits at a rotting desk, observing me as I enter.

"Ah," he says, standing. "The shipment from Black Sally?" I nod, and he stares at me. "Who are you?"

"Martin," I say, holding my hand out, wondering how his skin will feel when he shakes my hand, but he continues to look down, grabbing a crowbar to open the crate. I watch as he pries it open to reveal stacks of canned food. He sorts through it quickly.

"Good," says the man. "I am Eric Williams." He has a strange accent, but I can still understand him.

"That doesn't sound foreign to me," I say, curiously. Williams gives me a detached grin.

"I was born here, in Dunwall, and was given a Gristian name." He explains no further, turning to slide another crate toward me. I cough.

"Tell Mickey that it is all there," he says, waving his hand at the box. He has me hold the cart, while he places the crate onto it, and gives me a quick "goodbye" before sorting through the open crate again. I turn, finding that although I am interested by these strange, foreign people, I am glad to be leaving this dark place.

The walk back to the warehouse seems easier than the last, and I arrive feeling surprisingly accomplished.

"Good," I hear Mickey say, as he strides toward me. He, too, has a crowbar, and once again, I watch as he pries the crate open. He lets me peak over the edge at the contents inside the box. It is filled with small, brown glass bottles and wrapped sacks of something, stacked into bricks.

"Now, these two products, here, come from a certain plant that grows in Pandyssia, and those people can make it good, so we give them the plant and some food, and they make it for us," says Mickey. He points into the box. "The liquid gives its user a calm, euphoric kind of feelin', and the powder wakes 'em up right quick. And, no, we don't sell it straight. We make much more money mixin' it up with a little sugar water and tea, and sellin' it legit at the market. Makes it last longer."

My eyes widen.

"You mean Mother's Cure? Those tonics, the calming peppermint and the energizing berry? This is what's in them?" I have seen them sold at the market and have heard that they have some sort of secret ingredient. Some people go so far as to say it's magic, and Beall warns us against them, saying that we'll end up begging in the streets if we drink them.

"That's right, kid. If you've been drinkin' 'em, I recommend you stop, 'cause you'll get yourself addicted real quick. That's how we sell it for so much." Maybe Beall is right.

Mother's Cure Tonics comes in brown bottles with a picture of an elderly mother with rosy cheeks on the front. I remember trying it once, swiping two bottles from a stand and then running away. I made it into an alleyway and opened up the berry, managing to get a sip before I was tackled by two thugs. I had to bite and kick my way out of there and escaped safely into the backyard of the orphanage before they could catch up with me. Now, that I know who makes the tonics, that incident makes a lot more sense to me. Also, I managed to swipe one of the thugs' pocket knives, which is one of my favorite stolen items, now.

Mickey gestures toward the back corner of the warehouse.

"Now, go get your envelope from the back room on the table, and don't even _think _about stealin' anybody else's pay. I got eyes like a hawk, even from all the way over here."

* * *

I take the sewers back to the orphanage, not wanting to walk the streets after dark and climb out from the street right behind the orphanage. I squint as I spot a shadow by the fence, and I creep forward. The figure stays still, and as I get closer, I realize it's the newsboy.

"Whad'ya want, kid?" I say in my thug voice, puffing out my chest. The boy is shaking, but his head rises, and he looks me in the eye as I saunter toward him.

"Please give me my hat back. My daddy gave it to me." He wipes away a tear with the back of his hand. _Oh, boy._

"What do I care?" I say, looking down at my foot.

"Y-you're an orphan," he says, trying to appeal to me. "You should understand. My daddy's dead, you see..." He assumes I knew my parents and that I cared about them. I am tempted to laugh at his childishness. "...and that's his hat. It's all I have of his, and I wear it every day. _Please_." Now he bursts into tears. "Gimme my hat back. It's _mine._" I've never understood why people think they will get what they want by crying. All it does is annoy me and make me want to either leave or hit them. I think I will just let him cry for now, though, as it makes him look extra foolish, especially when I depart, leaving him to cry all alone.

"I found it," I tell him with a cocky grin. "Too bad. Your mommy'll buy you a new one."

"My mommy stopped coming home. I don't know where she _is_," says the newsboy. I shift uncomfortably at how personal he is being with me. He sobs into his hands, and I roll my eyes, pushing him aside to crawl through the hole in the fence, but the boy grabs my leg before I can get under. He pulls me toward him, reaching his hand out to grab the hat from my head, and I hop onto my feet, punching him hard in the nose. _Goddammit_, now he's screaming.

"Shut up!" I yell, pushing him. "I don't care about your _stupid_ parents. It's _my _hat, now." But then I get an idea, and I turn to him, giving him my most serious face. "Unless you pay for it. Then I can sell it to you. How's that sound?" The boy looks up at me, sniffling, and nods eagerly. He takes out his pouch, filled with all of the money he made during the day. It is tied tightly to his belt, as usual, and he undoes the knot, opening the bag to peek inside.

"I have to give most of this back to the newspaper, but you can have my salary for the day," he says, counting out a few coins.

"I want the whole thing, or you don't get the hat. It's _pretty_ valuable, after all. It's rare. Only one of a kind. _Your_ daddy's hat." I stroke the cap on top of my head, as if that will make it look more enticing. The boy furrows his eyebrow and bites his lip, looking from me to the pouch. Suddenly, he shoves the pouch in my direction, and I grab it from him.

"Now, give me - " he starts, but before he can finish, I make a dash for the fence, this time jumping over it. I land hard, falling to my knees and wince, but I am almost to safety. The boy wiggles his way through the hole in the fence, yelling, and I sprint to the back door, pulling it open and then slamming it shut behind me. I reach up to twist the deadbolt, and it is done.

_Damn_, I feel good. I am panting, but today, I've gained coin, _more_ coin, and a hat. My heart is pounding, and I am exhilarated. I know the feeling. I get it whenever I steal anything, but this feels so much more intense.

Everyone, including Beall, is asleep, and I creep into the kitchen, grabbing a big hunk of bread and some cheese, and then make my way into the common room. I set everything out on the floor and sit, pouring my coins out onto the old carpet. A _clink_ing waterfall sounds as they fall from the bag onto the ground, and I sort through them, my food forgotten. I count my coins, until I fall asleep, my body spread over them, like a child on its mother's lap and have nothing but good dreams.


	11. Thirty-Two

Well, this was _supposed_ to be chapter ten, but I finished the other one first. Thank you, readers and reviewers.

The definition used in this chapter for "rite of passage" is based off that of Victor Turner.

* * *

11

Thirty-Two

* * *

The sun has not yet climbed its way to the horizon, and already I have risen from bed and am out the door. The beauty of Whitecliff is lost in the darkness, and the sparking, ivory stone is a deep blue. My fellow seminarians and I seem to blend into the walls in our simple robes of navy, and we trudge to the sermon hall, some of us speaking quietly with others, but most of us silent, either in deep contemplation or groggy with sleep. I am an example of the silent and sleepy kind, shaking away the urge to go back to bed. The cool air helps, and the walk would be peaceful if I weren't completely surrounded by other students.

The sermon hall connects to the front of the Benjamin Holger Seminary at Whitecliff, towering above us with great, marble columns and walls of polished stone. We enter, our footsteps echoing on the hard floor, and find our way to the benches. Still, conversation is scarce, but the low hum of voices fills the room.

I yawn and wonder what I have gotten myself into. Is this place really for me? All of the faces here are unfamiliar. Of course, I didn't expect to know anyone, but these... _boys_ are young and fresh, while I am heavy and worn with experience. I see no other faces like mine here.

An overseer hobbles up to the front podium. Even though he wears a mask, I can tell that he is old, but built sturdily, like a boulder, as if nothing could ever push him down. He looks over our heads, scanning the room, and then clears his throat.

The hall falls silent, and the man speaks, holding his arms in the air. His voice is great and rich.

"A rite of passage is a ritual that all must eventually experience some time in their lives. You are now in the first stages of yours, separated from your homes and lives, and brought here to the sacred space. By coming here to Whitecliff, to the Seminary, you all have decided to start your journeys. Once you leave this hall, today, you will enter into the next stage. This is a liminal stage, hovering between the old and the new. It is impermanent, it is dangerous, and it is not guaranteed that you will make it all the way through. This stage will be as long as you make it to be. If you work hard, if you study, if you are sincere and dedicated, this stage will be quicker for you than for those who choose to slack, and to those who would do the latter, I remind you to 'Restrict the Restless Hands' and to 'Restrict an errant mind'. Those who are strong enough to make it to the last stage, will see the fruits of their labor. You will be reinstated into the world as someone new - as an Overseer. No longer will you be your young, untrained and weak selves. Who you were will not matter, for you will no longer be that person. You will be pure and strong. You will be valiant, someone to be admired and yet you will be humble all the same. To be an Overseer is to be both a servant and a warrior. We protect the common folk from the influence of the Outsider at all costs, and I hope that one day, I will see you all walking the halls throughout Gristol in your masks and robes and using your voices and bodies to protect those who cannot protect themselves.

"Now," says the Overseer. "I am sure that most of you have heard my name over the years. I am Overseer Willis. I have lived here in Whitecliff, giving sermons and running the Seminary, for over sixty years. I welcome you all to the Benjamin Holger Seminary and wish you all the best in your studies." We clap and are then instructed to line up, two by two, in front of the doors. Everything about the way we move is chaotic. Our footsteps are muddled, sounding like one giant clap of thunder; we talk, some not paying much attention as we get into our lines; we slouch and we sway.

I find myself next to a man who, surprisingly, looks to be about my age. However, there is not a scar on him, and his eyes, well, they are certainly not tired. They are teeming with life, but not with that of optimism or hope. His eyes blaze with fire, as though he were born to destroy.

He studies me as I study him, and I detect intelligence, even craftiness in him. I can tell that he sees it in my eyes, as well, and he gives me a smirk, holding out his hand.

"Alistair Jasper," he says, shaking my hand.

"M - Teague Martin," I tell him, mirroring his grin.

That is all we get to say to each other before the Overseers have us "march" through the doors of the Seminary to meet our mentors.

My mentor is fourteen years old with black hair, pale skin and bright green eyes. A skinny, little runt. If his looks did not already give up his Morlish heritage, his name would.

"Teague Martin?" he says. "My name is Cael Devlin." I still wince at the use of my first name, but I remind myself why I am here and why I registered using my real name. "Was your family name changed to 'Martin' in Dunwall?" He catches me off-guard.

"What? I don't know," I say, my hands clenching the arm rests of the chair in which I sit. "I never knew my family," I tell him. The little boy nods, looking me in the eye the entire time. I can see wisdom in his green irises, but there is something else as well. Pain? Anger? I can't be sure, as it is mostly hidden.

"Well, I will be your mentor for the entirety of your stay at the Seminary. As you probably already know, it is my job to make sure that you graduate and become initiated into the Abbey. Only then will _I_ be allowed to graduate," says Devlin.

In my short time in Whitecliff I have learned a few things. The children who are taken during the trials and pass are automatically initiated into the Abbey, however they must study at the Seminary, just like everyone else. They are given extra responsibilities, because it is they who will eventually rise to the top of the hierarchy, leading squads of Overseers, representing the Abbey in other cities and on other islands, and even becoming High Overseer.

From what I understand, the current High Overseer, Thaddeus Campbell, is the first non-child-initiate to become High Overseer. It is naturally assumed that because the children are raised to become Overseers that they will be more qualified to lead the Abbey, and so when Campbell assumed the position, there were whispers, saying that there was something more going on behind the scenes and that Campbell was never qualified to rise so high within the Abbey's hierarchy. Still, nobody ever questioned his claim openly.

I have my suspicions about it as well. I tell myself that it is none of my business, but I cannot help but be curious. If there is a way for Campbell to become High Overseer, is there a way for someone like me to rise to take his place?

_No_. I cannot do this to myself, again. I am here because of all the wrong I have done in the past. I am here to put my old habits behind me. I am here to become a new man - a man of faith - an Overseer.

"I find it strange that with all the studying you have done, you will still graduate after me," I say to my mentor, attempting to disconnect myself from my thoughts.

"It is for the best," he tells me. "I must make sure that I am prepared to do my duty before I don my mask." I can't help but think that this boy takes himself all too seriously. He looks and sounds ridiculous.

"Surely, at your age, you have mastered all there is to know," I say dryly. "There'll be no surprises for you when you go out into the world. Not at all." I cross my ankle over my thigh, suddenly feeling as mischievous as a boy.

"Your flippancy is a sign of your immaturity," Devlin snaps, his voice cracking. "It is one of the many weaknesses on which you will have to work." I let a smirk form on my lips just for a moment.

"Of course. Anyone looking at us now would know immediately that _you _are more mature than me," I reply, raising an eyebrow and grinning smugly.

"Anyone _listening_ would," Devlin grumbles. _Good_, I've drawn him in. He's just too easy a target to pass up, especially if he seriously thinks that _he_ is going to mentor _me_. I give him a pleasant smile.

"Tell me then, mentor, how should I sound when reading the Strictures aloud? I seem to have forgotten, and since out of the two of us you are the more _mature_-sounding..." I sit back in my chair, smirking as Devlin stands. He raises his arm into the air, taking a deep breath in order to build up the strong voice needed to give a sermon.

"Restrict the Wan - " his voice cracks, and I look at him, calmly resting in my chair.

"Was that it? I seem to remember there being more to that, but what would _I _know, you being more mature than me." I pause as Devlin glares at me. "I didn't mean to interrupt, please go on. I must follow in your footsteps so that my immaturity is cleansed from my body," I say, my voice betraying none of my amusement, as I speak quickly and casually. Devlin sits, giving me a sharp look before delivering his final speech, making sure to enunciate every word.

"I do not know why you are here, but I suggest you figure it out. I have devoted my life to the serious study of the Strictures, and I will not let some _arrogant_ ignoramus make a fool out of me. We will speak again, tomorrow, and I hope that by then, you will have learned something useful." He gives me a tight smile. "I am your mentor, and I am here to help you in your studies at this school. So, if you come to me and I determine that you do not need any help, I will ask you to leave. Now, please leave the room."

I leave feeling confused, as though I have just woken from a trance. I truly did not walk into that office intending to mock my mentor, but once I started, something just took over, as if once I was given the opportunity to exercise any sort of power over Devlin, I grabbed at it with greedy hands, taking and using all that I could. The feeling is not even remotely unfamiliar. It has lived with me for my entire life, like a best friend or like a brother, and here I am in Whitecliff, trying to separate myself from it. How do I get rid of a part of myself? How do I banish something that has shaped and influenced my life over and over again, maybe more than any other part of me ever has? How do I eliminate the power that has fueled my decisions and actions, something that has driven me to this very point?

Could Devlin be... _right_ about me? Am I ignorant or even _immature_?

I came here to escape the temptations driving me to perform the atrocities that pile onto my shoulders, haunting me day and night, and naively, I _truly _believed that I would be in a place where there would be absolutely no temptation to fight.

But temptation is everywhere, and if I do not gain power over it, then I am a slave, forced to act on its every whim. If I do not gain power over it, then I am powerless.


	12. Thirty

Well, I had NO idea what I was talking about in this chapter, my only source being a short article on how civil war soldiers were trained to use their weapons (they weren't). I hope it's not _too_ obvious. If anybody has some good information on soldiers in the 1800s, I would really appreciate it if you would please share your knowledge with me. Otherwise, I'm just making it all up.

Thank you reviewers and readers.

* * *

12

Thirty

* * *

I find myself outside for the first time in two years since I was admitted to Coldridge Prison. The fresh air of Dunwall is just as I remember it: smoggy and thick, smelling of burning oil, death, and of course, fish. I am escorted by two guards, one who I have taken to calling "Rat Face" because of his rat-like face, and another, who I call "Hagfish". I was hoping that the guards would spare me the indignity of being walked to the docks in chains, but I can be _far _too optimistic at times.

"This is the murderer?" We approach a graying man sitting at a simple, wooden table, pen in hand, scribbling in a ledger.

"Yes," says Rat Face. "Teague Martin," The man eyes me as one eyes his shoe after stepping in dog poop. I am nothing to these people. Just another criminal.

I wear my uniform and am anxious to get the shackles off of my wrists, even just so I can rub the stubble on my face with my hand. I have cleaned up the best that I can, and my hair is neatly cut, combed, and brushed. This is the first day in a long time that I do not smell like sweat and shit, and already, I am much more content in my own skin.

The location to which I was supposed to be taken changed suddenly in the night, and I eye the large ship in front of me suspiciously.

"Am I going somewhere?" I ask the graying man.

"_Quiet_," says Hagfish, slapping my arm.

I don't like this, but at least there are others in uniform boarding the ship, so I don't _think_ I'm being banished to Pandyssia or anything like that. I can tell that they are young. Probably mostly teenagers.

"I was told that I would be placed with other convicts," I say.

"Well, things change," the graying man replies with a smirk. His eyes narrow.

What the hell did I ever do to this man? It seems as though he is holding a grudge against me, though I do not know why. I study his face, but he does not look familiar.

"On the boat," he says, pointing. "Welcome to the Imperial Army."

* * *

We head inside to be briefed on our mission, and I find a place among the unknown faces. Some look bored, others look excited, but most appear to be afraid. Well, since we are all untrained, I doubt we will have to do anything too dangerous. A broad-shouldered man in an officer's uniform stands before us.

"We are headed to Morley, to the city of Caulkenny. There, you will be split into five groups, each one assigned to a major city. In your assigned city, you will assist the City Watch with the recent outbreaks of rioting that have been further exacerbated recently by Morlish nationalist rebels. Most of these places do not have much rioting, but it is your job to keep the peace through crowd control and containment. You will also assist the City Watch with making arrests and detaining unruly citizens." I watch the boys eye each other, and most look worried. I smirk. This will be _much_ more exciting than prison.

Though the Morley Insurrection is over, the effects of it still linger. The island remains divided, each side calling the other "traitor". Put a nationalist Morlishman and an Imperial Morlishman in the same room, and someone will be dead in no time. The Morlish Mob in Dunwall despises the Empire, but to the nationalists in Morley, they are nothing more than imperial scum.

I've had my experiences with the Morlish Mob. After I was booted from Black Sally's gang, they were the first group I went to, but they took one look at me and chased me away, calling me a "mutt" and an "imperialist". All the Gristians and mutts work for Black Sally, which made it difficult for me to find a place for myself.

We are dismissed and instructed to head outside for training. We make our way there slowly, forming a large, red blob on the ship's deck. I honestly never thought I would go anywhere on a ship, but here I am. Following orders has never been one of my strengths, and I often find myself disobeying simply because I was ordered to do something. It seems to me that my insolence will not be well-tolerated here, and so I remind myself to try to keep a lid on my behavior, if that is even possible. I have taken orders before, and I can do it again. It is that or prison.

We are given a ten-minute crash-course on how to load our pistols. The boys fumble with the bullets, dropping them all over the ground, and many of them have already forgotten how to reload. Upon seeing that I know what I'm doing, the boys directly to my right, left, and back inch closer to me, whispering for help. _Great, _I've always wanted to be a teacher.

I sigh, showing them quickly how to load the gun.

"This is _exactly_ what you _just _learned," I snap at them.

"He only did it once, though," says the boy to my right. I roll my eyes, wondering how much of this I can take. I'm surrounded by children. I would say that most of these boys are around sixteen to twenty years old, and here I am, in my thirties. At least I have some skill with a gun and a knife.

The boys do not get any time for shooting practice and are just told to, "aim and pull the trigger." The military is confident in its new pistol technology. I'm sure the boys will do just fine. If anything, they give me more of a chance to survive.

The first half of the day is spent doing marching exercises and learning calls. I am quick to catch on, but the other boys stumble over their feet and run into each other. I can hear giggling behind me, and the boy to my left steps on my foot as we change direction.

By noon, we have improved a bit, and we are given a break for lunch. I find that I have acquired a small posse, consisting of the three boys who asked me for help earlier. They follow me as I sit at one of the tables with my food, and I ignore them, trying to eat quickly.

"Ugh, this food is awful," says the boy who was on my right. He is thin with sandy, blond hair and freckles, and he can't be any older than sixteen.

"It's much better than the food in prison," I say, raising an eyebrow. "Especially with the lack of spit." The boys gasp.

"You were in prison? What did you do?" The boy who was on my left looks at me with wide eyes. He is tall and lanky, his eyes and hair a simple brown.

"A few things," I say, taking a bite of food. I look up at the ceiling, as though considering what to say next. "Actually, more than a few." I feel just a bit sick with myself, trying to show off to these boys, but I have to guiltily admit that I enjoy how they look up to me.

"Like what?" says the boy to my left. "Robbery? Arson? Murder?"

"A little bit of everything," I say smoothly.

"Wow," says the small one. "My name is Keith." He grins.

"I'm Andrew," the tall one tells me. I look at the one who was behind me, earlier, and I can clearly tell that he is Morlish.

"Kieran," he mumbles. He even has the accent.

"Excited to be going home?" I ask him. He shakes his head.

"I just got to Dunwall and thought I'd be staying there. I don't know how to be a soldier." He looks more than a bit distressed, and I hope that he doesn't start crying on me.

"Then why'd you join the army, stupid?" asks Andrew.

"I heard it was free meals and shelter. The people in the Immigrant District who told me about it said that the army doesn't do anything."

"They don't usually," I snort. "Why else would I be here? I'm not looking to get myself killed, but on the day I was let out of prison, I was taken to this ship."

"It shouldn't be too bad," says Keith. "We're only helping out the City Watch, and we're only fighting rioters."

"What's the difference between us and rioters?" Kieran asks. I consider his question.

"Discipline," I answer after taking a big bite of a stale roll. "That's about it, though, especially with the skill we show during our drills."

"You still haven't told us your name," Kieran says, eying me. He seems like a pretty sharp boy, but he's scared.

"Martin," I answer. Kieran continues to study my face.

"You look Morlish to me. Are you?"

"_No_," I snap. "Pure Gristian. Born and raised in the slums and shit holes of Dunwall."

After lunch, we drill for _five_ more hours, maneuvering from one formation to the next and then back to the first again. Already, I am tired of this, and I catch myself dreaming of prison, but no, this is still not as bad as prison. The boys can't seem to get the hang of changing formation, and there is chaos, which ends up confusing me as well. It does not help that we are all called "you".

"Hey, Martin," Andrew whispers to me. We turn, and he steps on my foot. "D'you think our uniforms are red so they'll blend in with our blood? That's what Keith says." I eye Keith, who nods.

"Maybe," I say in faux contemplation. "They could've just been white when they were first issued. I'm pretty sure we're all in hand-me-downs." Having spent my younger years sharing clothes with the other boys in the orphanage, I feel the familiar tug of fabric that does not fit quite right. I wonder about the poor, unfortunate soul who used to wear this uniform. Who was he? How did he die? I can tell that the uniform has been stitched back together more than once - in the chest, side, back, arm. I guess that's what happens when you spend most of your money on the navy, granting the army whatever is left over. My uniform is garnished with the scars of every man who has ever died while wearing it - both a tribute and an insult to their memory, as a jacket can be sewed back together and patched up, but a man can only take so much before patching and sewing are no longer an option. My jacket wears its survivor's guilt right on its sleeve.

Andrew's face has turned white, and I am almost tempted to comfort him, (he knows I was joking, _right?_) but I lose my concentration as I slam into the person who was in front of me.

"_Right_, dumbass," he hisses. "It's this way." He points, rolling his eyes. I study him. The way he holds himself makes me think that he may be high-born. I am surprised that he would be assigned to our group, seeing as most of us are nothing but poor scum - immigrants, pickpockets, pan handlers, mudlarks, delinquents, orphans, and many of us fit into more than one of those categories.

Maybe the graying man did not like _him_ for some reason, either. If that's true, I'll have to try to bond with him over our common enemy, but it's possible that the graying man just hates everyone.

During dinner, I am so tired that I can hardly eat, and we are informed that we will be drilling for another few hours afterward. I am tempted to fall asleep in my mashed potatoes.

"Man, these potatoes are so _soft_," Keith says, reading my mind. He yawns. "I could use a pillow right about now. I never thought I'd ever be too tired to eat, especially since I don't always know when I'll get my next meal, but..." He yawns again. We all nod in agreement. Kieran's head droops toward the table, and Andrew massages his shoulders. I don't even care that my friends are a bunch of kids anymore. Already, we are bonding over our shared misery. As far as I'm concerned, we are all equal.

Andrew whines dramatically as we are called back outside.

"Can't you just stab him or something, Martin?" he grumbles, pointing his head toward the officers' table. I want to ignore him, because I know that he is not serious, but I answer anyway.

"I'm sure they anticipated that some of us might try to hurt others. They're giving weapons to _convicts_, for fuck's sake. Those men over there could put me down in no time." I roll my shoulders and neck.

"So, what, they just don't care about _us_? How are _we _supposed to protect ourselves from convicts with weapons?" Keith wonders. I raise an eyebrow and nod.

"As far as they're concerned, we're as expendable as lab rats. This is the army. Not the navy." _And that means we have to take care of ourselves_. I scan the room, wondering how many of these boys will survive our little trip to Morley. I suspect that our jobs will be much more difficult than we were told. For trained men, riot control may be easy, but mobs are ruthless, their mercy taken from them by their shared anonymity and strength, and none of us are trained, and very few of us are men.

I see Kieran eying me as we head outside. He really does remind me of myself when I was younger, except that I was a bit more impulsive and mean-spirited, and I would have rather died before admitting that I was scared. Have I really changed all that much? Maybe not.

By the time drills are over my feet are numb, and my shoulders are heavy, weighing my spine down into a slouching curve. Keith moans audibly, and we trudge into the bunkroom, heading to the nearest bed. As I near one of the bunks, Kieran manages to get in front of me and claim the bottom, which means I must climb to the top. I am too tired to be annoyed, and so I undress, packing my clothes away neatly, and then collapse on the top bunk. I close my eyes, ready to drift off immediately.

* * *

I hear rustling in the room, and I find that I cannot sleep. I sit up, studying the other bunks and see that most of the boys are tossing and turning as well. I stick my head down below, and Kieran looks up at me.

"I can't sleep," he whispers.

"Me neither." I sigh.

"I keep hearing those stupid calls." Kieran stretches, and I nod. Not only are the calls stuck in my head, but every time I try to fall asleep, I feel as though I am marching, and my legs move, waking me again.

"At least we'll know them by the time we get to Morley," I say, attempting to grin. Kieran is silent.

"I guess I'll try to sleep again," he says after some time.

"Yeah, me too," I reply, turning over onto my other side. I sigh, closing my eyes once again.

"Goodnight, Teague," I hear from the bottom bunk. It is not until morning that I realize that I did not tell him my first name.


	13. Nineteen (2)

Well, I started writing with the intention of working on TotH and ended up with two chapters of "Martin" instead. So, here they are.

I can't stop rolling my eyes at the dialogue in this one. Just, all the cheesiness... I think it's pretty obvious that romance (even faux romance) is not something I'm used to reading or writing about.

The Busty Mermaid - usually simply called "The Mermaid" - is a bar/brothel located by the docks. It caters mostly to sailors and travelers who are looking for more than a drink.

Thank you, reviewers and readers!

* * *

13

Nineteen

* * *

"Her name is Francesca Billingsley, heir to the Billingsley Textiles Company. Apparently, she's known to be a bit... frigid, but if anyone can woo her, it will be you, Martino." The Baker pats me hard on the back. He says my name as "Marteeno" as it is pronounced in Serkonos. "We have a name for men like you in Serkonos. In Gristian, I guess it would be something like 'smooth talker'. Who better than a younger man to gain the affections of a twenty-five-year-old woman, eh?"

We sit around the table at The Baker's apartment, enjoying the rich food he has cooked for us. I do not think I have ever had anything this delicious. The Baker keeps piling food onto our plates as soon as we leave an empty space, and a struggle between my brain and stomach ensues. My brain always wins, and it tells me that the food is delicious, so I continue to eat. I watch Nico and Emil chow down on the cuisine of their homeland, gracefully lifting extra-large forkfuls of the food into their already-stuffed mouths without getting so much as a drop of sauce on their clothes. I find that I have trouble eating like them, making my meal much sloppier, but The Baker only looks at me appreciatively.

"I'm glad you like my cooking, Martino," he says, his stomach bouncing jollily as he chuckles.

"So, where did you get this information?" I ask, my mouth stuffed with food.

"Eh..." The Baker looks unsure. "Well, I can tell you that she is a businesswoman who would very much like to see the Billingsleys broke and on the street. I can only assume that she has plans for - eh, taking care of the Billingsleys' company, and once you strike, Martino, they'll have nothing left." I nod.

"I don't know why Martin gets to do it. Why not me?" asks Emil with a buffoonish smile.

"Because, Emilio," The Baker starts. "The closest you have ever gotten to being with a woman is when you were young and still sucking at the teat of your mamma." All of us burst into laughter, including Emil, who laughs the loudest.

Emilio started going by "Emil" after he noticed that most Gristians pronounced his name as "Emily-O". I don't think he was too fond of it. Now, he only has to deal with people calling him "Emul". I _guess_ it's an improvement. If it were me, I would make up a completely new name, but Emil is always talking about how he doesn't want to forget where he came from. Some days I find myself wishing that I were Serkonan as well. Not only would I fit in better with my companions, but I'd also much rather be called "dirty" than "minnow". I'm a thief. Of course I'm dirty. Minnows, however, are fish bait.

"So, what's the plan?" Emil asks, once we have calmed down. I wait for The Baker to speak, but then I realize that all three of my companions have turned to me. I stare at them for a moment, my eyes wide, and swallow the last bit of food in my mouth. Of course. I always come up with the plans.

"Well, I already know that in order to gain her trust, I must first access and then capture her... heart - "

"Among other parts," Emil snickers while Nico and The Baker smirk. I ignore them.

"There are two ways we can do this - either I get hurt and she saves me, or she gets hurt and I save her. It all really depends on the type of woman. Is she the Faith-Sparrow-type?" I ask, referring to a famous Gristian nurse in the Morley Insurrection. "Or is she the Melody-Maiden-type?" I reference a children's storybook character this time.

"Or both?" Nico offers.

"Or both," I repeat.

"Well, she has not taken to any of her suitors, who, obviously have all been aristocrats," says The Baker.

"So, are aristocrats caretakers or do they need to be taken care of?" I think for a moment. Nico is the first to smile. "I guess we can assume that she's the Melody-Maiden-type. Good. I'm a Marty-Hawk-type, myself." My mind wanders momentarily back to the books I read when I lived in the orphanage. Marty Hawk was a mischievous little boy, always getting into trouble. However, despite his knack for self-endangerment, he never got himself into a situation from which he could not get himself out. I always liked to think that Marty and I were alike, and I still do. We even have the same name. How is that not perfect?

* * *

We spend the night discussing the plan, and then I meet up with Nico and Emil in the afternoon.

To make myself look extra-honest when I meet Francesca, I decide to disguise myself as a day laborer, simply dressing in my normal clothes and carrying a toolbox. My face is stubbly today, giving me the appearance of rugged manliness that is solely possessed by the honest, hardworking folk. I am tempted to carry a pickaxe over my shoulder, topping off my image with a seemingly-effortless swagger, in the ultimate display of machismo, but I do not want to call _too_ much attention to myself.

I am in position and wait for Nico to begin. This section of town is not too crowded, so I do not think I will have to worry about any attempts of impromptu vigilantism by any passing good samaritans.

Emil stands at the top of the hill with the handles of an empty food cart clenched between his fingers. The plan is easy enough, and there is not too much that could go wrong. I hear the rumble of a railcar and nod to Emil, who lets go of the cart, and it makes its way down the hill, stopping directly on the tracks. Perfect. The railcar has almost arrived, and I get ready to move.

The car rumbles and screeches as it makes its way down the road. It is headed toward the low bridge ahead, but it will not make it there.

As I watch the vehicle approach, I assume the driver does not see the cart in time, because, instead of stopping, he rams right into it. I grit my teeth as the car derails, screeching violently, and skids to the side. I see Nico staring at me from far away with wide eyes, and I beckon him toward the smoking railcar.

Luckily Francesca is okay, and she steps from the car, looking a bit shaken up. I eye her from afar, catching a glimpse of her figure. Well, maybe this job will not be _too _horrible. The driver pulls himself from the front of the vehicle, limping, and both look around as if they are not sure what to do. The old man goes to inspect the now nearly-crushed cart, and that is when Nico strikes.

"Hands up!" He yells, running toward them. Francesca screams, while the driver fumbles for his pistol, which is still in the railcar. Nico shoots at him, and he backs away, but my friend isn't done with him. He grabs him by the collar, pivoting around and shoving him into the wrecked car. "I said hands up, old man." He turns the driver so that his back is against the hard, matte metal, giving him a few, good punches before throwing him to the ground. I hear the pistol go off, and, judging by the driver's scream, it seems as though Nico has shot him. _Damn_ it, I knew I should have had Emil do the job. I hope that Nico won't go too far, if he hasn't already.

The driver moans in pain, and Nico turns to Francesca, who whimpers in fear. He goes for her belt pouch first, cutting the whole thing loose. Next he takes her jewelry, bracelet, necklace, earrings, and then, when he is satisfied, he turns to leave.

I start walking, whistling as I swing my toolbox back and forth.

"Help!" I hear Francesca shout. "Please, I've been robbed!" Nico and I make eye contact, and then he takes off. I drop the toolbox and close in on him easily, tacking him to the ground, and we both give each other some mediocre punches, until I manage to make Nico drop his loot. I overpower him, slamming him - as gently as I can , while still making it look authentic - into the ground. He yells, swatting at me, and I let him go. Nico sprints from the scene, never looking back.

"Oh, thank you!" I hear. I pick up the jewelry and pouch and hand it to Francesca as she runs up to me. We are both panting as I hand over her belongings grudgingly as I catch a glimpse of the sparkle of diamonds and polished gold in my fingers, though my reluctance does not show in my face. It is a shame to let these go, but I will have much more if I pull this off. Francesca tries to compose herself, but it seems that she cannot stop grinning. She blushes, and I give her my best smile.

"Are you alright?" I ask her. "Did he hurt you?"

"No," she replies. "But Huston..." The driver is still on the ground, and I examine him. Damn it, Nico shot him in the foot, but it gives me a good idea.

"The hospital isn't far from here. I can take him." I lift the fragile, old man into my arms.

"You are too kind," says Francesca. "Is there anyway for me to repay you?" She reaches for her pouch.

"Let's just get him some treatment first, " I say, turning toward the hospital.

"But you dropped your tools." Francesca points at the toolbox broken into pieces that have scattered all over the road.

"They're just tools," I say grinning. "Surely, a man's life is much more important." Does she really think I would leave a man bleeding to death for a pile of worthless tools? Maybe she does. As far as I know, the aristocracy thinks we are all animals who would murder each other over a crust of bread. Francesca is satisfied by my reply, and we make our way toward the hospital.

"Help, please!" Francesca yells as we enter the hospital. She shakes her coin pouch above her head. "My driver has been shot! Please help him." Upon hearing the characteristic jingle of coin hitting coin, at least five nurses rush over, bringing a stretcher with them. Francesca eyes me and grins as they take Huston away.

"How I love being rich," she says, turning toward the door.

"You aren't going to wait to see if he's alright?" I ask her. She waves her hand.

"No, no. Why would I do that? He is just a - " She catches herself, and I raise an eyebrow.

"I guess we can go, then," I say smoothly, ignoring her unspoken words.

We stand outside, looking back and forth in both directions, as if we are not sure where to go.

"I'll walk you home, Miss..." I start.

"Oh," she says. "Billingsley." She holds out her hand. "But you may call me Francesca. I believe you have earned that privilege, mysterious savior." I take her hand, not knowing what to do with it as she curtsies. I try not to let my discomfort show on my face, but Francesca giggles at my confusion. "I'm sorry. The first non-barbaric commoner I meet, and I'm expecting you to be a gentleman." She smiles at me. "Gentleman are such a _bore_." She says "bore" loftily, lifting and holding out the word with an unsounded stream of air. Even her way of speaking simple words is sophisticated. Every sound is carefully toned, shaped, and enunciated, as though the clarity of her words were of the utmost importance to her being.

We start our walk to Francesca's home, and I introduce myself.

"Martin," she repeats thoughtfully, pronouncing it "_maahtin_" in a silky purr.

She has already claimed my arm as her own as we saunter down the cobblestone road. She sneaks glances at me when she thinks I'm not looking. Everything about her is soft. Her skin, her face, her clothes, her voice. She is smooth, like satin, and slightly fragrant. Is that rosewater?

I shake my head visibly, frowning at the effect this aristocratic woman has on me. Everything about her is fake. She is molded, painted, and polished, down to the last chestnut-colored curl falling from her head. Untouched and shielded from the world, she glides over the heads of the common folk, as if they did not exist at all. A woman like this is no more than a porcelain doll, but I guess even some dolls want a taste of life every once in a while.

This arrangement is perfect. It turns out I am just what she is looking for. To her, I am authentic - funny, isn't it? During our walk, Francesca proceeds to tell me of men who have attempted - and failed - to capture her fancy. The list goes on and on.

"Ugh, then there was this one suitor," she says forcefully, her precise enunciation making her sound as though she literally _spits_ each word from her mouth. "He would not shut _up_ about his _work_." She puts her hand to her mouth and blushes, her tone softening when she speaks again. "Excuse me. I do not know what's gotten into me. I should not use that sort of language." I have avoided cursing in front of her, which is a chore for me, especially when I find myself taking part in conversations in which I would rather not.

"Well, I'm not offended," I say, laughing. "We common folk are as frank as can be."

"Yes, I suppose you are," replies Francesca. She holds my arm tighter, leaning in close, making our hips touch as we walk. I try to move normally, but this position is a bit restrictive. "What firm muscles you have," says Francesca. She squeezes my arm. "And that stubble on your face, so _manly_." She giggles, brushing her hand across my cheek.

"I see you've already learned something from me about being frank," I say, laughing. I am not used to having my face caressed by strangers and fight the urge to shirk her touch. Francesca's face brightens.

"I suppose I have."

We arrive at Francesca's house in the Estate District, and she looks at me longingly. Already, the sun is going down. I study the house as it looms over me, its ancient brick walls hugged by thick ivy. Francesca pulls my gaze back to hers.

"This was nice," says Francesca, looking me in the eye. Whatever shyness she had is gone now.

"Was?" I say, raising an eyebrow. "It _can't _be over, yet." I grin. "This is a beautiful garden you have, here. Would you mind giving me a tour?" I figure that there will be privacy among the ridiculous amount of flowers and bushes of all different types and colors that make up the garden.

"Oh, of course," she says. I do not think she quite understands, yet, but as she leads me into the maze of flowers, I lift her suddenly, resting her on a bench. _Now_, she understands.

"Out _here_?" she whispers, looking around frantically.

"Of course," I say, reaching for the front of her blouse. I grin mischievously, stroking her breast through the fabric, but Francesca's smile is gone.

"Wait, I..." she starts. _Damn _it. I withdraw my hands. Did I do something wrong? Francesca stares into my eyes for a few seconds before continuing. "I've never - I mean, I - I'm a virgin." I guess I shouldn't be surprised, based on stories of her frigidness, but, Outsider's _Eyes_, she's _twenty-five_. I swallow an impatient sigh.

I smile sweetly at her, helping her from the bench and onto her feet.

"I hope I have not lost your interest," says Francesca. "I _do_ fancy you." I take her chin between my fingers.

"Of course not, _my_ Francesca." She blushes at that. "I will come by tomorrow night, and we will do something special." Emil should be able to come up with something romantic. I am really more of a spontaneous fuck-against-the-wall type, and my body only reinforces that ingrained trait. I do not _think_ Francesca notices, but I take a deep breath, attempting to ground myself. I think it is something about her softness that gets to me, but I remind myself that it is treacherous. Not that it would matter if I were not trying to woo her. Given the chance, I would spend the night in her bed. Only _one_ night, though. I wonder how long I will be stuck with her.

"That sounds lovely," says Francesca. I pull her close, giving her a light kiss on the lips. We linger for a few seconds, and then I am gone.

The streets of the Estate District are dark and deserted, and I long for rough noise and some company. _Real _people. It's been a _long _day. I think I'll head to The Mermaid for a drink and a cheap - no, make that mid-priced - fuck.


	14. Forty-Three (2)

14

Forty-Three

* * *

Karma stares back at me, and I remember the words I uttered, so many years ago.

_Just one sip..._

I cannot pass this up; it is too good.

_I do it for her, though. For Young Lady Emily. I do it for the good of the Empire, _I remind myself. I tell myself that I have changed. I am no longer Martin the thief or Martin the soldier... or Martin the murderer. I am Overseer Martin. The Admiral stares at me, unblinking, with his little, beady eyes. I can read nothing from his face.

"Here is what we'll do," I say, the ideas spontaneously blooming in my mind. I am brilliant. I can see it in the Admiral's eyes. He nods approvingly, and I look into his dumb face. This man will rely on me to do the thinking. He is authority, he is discipline, but he is not like me. I realize that with my role in this conspiracy, I have the upper hand. Whatever I suggest, he will do, charging into it with trumpets blazing -

No! I am Overseer Martin. I risk my position, my good standing, for the true empress. It is my chance to prove that I _am _better. I _have_ changed for good. I will not be drawn in again by greed. I need no more weight on my shoulders - no more lives lost and no more betrayals in a doomed quest for some sort of happiness, some sort of fulfillment. I am content as I am. I am being rewarded for my good behavior with a chance to make up for my crimes.

I study the Admiral as he stands in front of me looking distinguished in his crisp and clean uniform. He is an honorable man. He is a dedicated man. I will be the same. I _am _the same.

_Just one sip..._

I have come so far. Surely, there is no harm in getting involved in this conspiracy. I can join and feel it out, and if I find that it is too much for me to handle without giving into temptation, I can leave.

Of course I will do fine, though. I have had many temptations placed before me throughout my years as an Overseer, and I have resisted... most.

If I have a chance to help the Empire, why should I not take it? I became an Overseer, and even though I was assigned to the Office of the High Overseer, I have not even once tried to steal Campbell's journal. Yes, I have thought about it. I have even dreamt about it, but the important thing is that I have not done it. If I can resist the journal, then this will be easy. Getting myself involved in the fate of the Empire can only have two outcomes. Either we find Lady Emily and restore her to the throne, or we fail, and if I happen to be offered the opportunity to ascend to a higher position, I will have _earned_ it.

Wouldn't it be nice? To actually be able to follow through on something and earn my place in society? Every time I have tried to take matters into my own hands, my own impatience sabotages any chance of me succeeding. With Big Sally's gang, the Serkonans, Jarvis's band, and even the army. The Abbey is different. No matter how hard I work, I will never make it to the top without cheating, because I am not a child-initiate. I have done my work in the Abbey. I have gotten as far as I can. Now, this is my chance to prove myself, but if I do this, it must not be to prematurely gain power. If I betray the Abbey, it must be for a good cause.

The man in front of me is a prime example of someone who has earned his position. _Admiral_ Havelock. I have heard his name before, and with it comes honor, sacrifice, and hard work. He started young and worked his way up through the navy, and today, he is at the top.

Thanks to my impulsiveness and impatience, I have not been able to achieve the same. I wonder where I would be now, if I had just obeyed and worked hard when I was a part of Big Sally's gang. Would I have Mickey's job, now? I don't know, but I do know that at the moment, I am nowhere.

So, is this karma, or is it something else? Is it simply an opportunity? A gift? Will I be Barney and relapse after my first taste of power after all these years, or will I be Admiral Havelock? Will I ruin myself for good, or will I heal myself once and for all?

"First, we must save the Royal Protector," I say. "He is to be executed at any time, and we cannot let that happen. We're going to need him if we are to succeed. _He _is our key to victory."

I take a sip and plunge headfirst into the bottle.


	15. Thirteen

Sorry, this isn't the best chapter. I feel like it's missing something.

In this chapter I introduce a new character - one of Martin's friends. I'm gonna say that this is the most difficult relationship Martin has ever had with another person. Usually, he finds himself surrounded by thugs and other like-minded people, but I wanted to introduce a character who's a bit different. She's still a thief, but she's unpredictable. She's definitely not supposed to be likable. She's easily slighted, impatient, easily frustrated and angered, independent and yet dependent at the same time, stubborn, and vulnerable. She is very impulsive and often does not think things through. Basically, she's meant to clash with Martin's coolness, and though they are both manipulative, they show it in different ways, and Maisie is probably the only person who is able to (sometimes) manipulate Martin.

Also, Martin has teenage boy thoughts and a lesson in sex ed.

* * *

15

Thirteen

* * *

Maisie opens her legs teasingly, giving me a grin.

"Don't you wanna know why pussy's so popular?" she says, taking my hand and moving it up her leg. I gulp, feeling my face turn red. "Aw, is the street thug nervous?"

"Aren't you?" I retort. Maisie's smile disappears, and now she, too, is blushing.

"I ain't nervous," she says. "I've had plenty of men."

"No, you haven't," I say.

"Yeah I have. I just had one the other day. A big fella named Mac. He was a City Watch Guard." Maisie folds her arms and furrows an eyebrow. "Why don't you believe me? You don't know what you're talkin' about, neither."

"_Neither?"_ I say, and Maisie realizes her mistake, her face reddening even more.

"I meant-"

"Lemme see, then, since you've had so many men," I say, reaching for the buttons on her pants. Maisie falls silent as I pull her pants and underwear from around her legs, and I notice that she does not look nearly as confident as before.

From what I've heard, you can tell whether or not a girl's a virgin by sticking your fingers up her pussy, so I open Maisie's legs wider and put my hand between them.

There's supposed to be a hole somewhere down here, but Maisie's got a bunch of hair everywhere, so I can't see too much. Nobody told me that girls had hair on their pussies.

"What are you doin'?" Maisie asks as I continue to poke her with my fingers.

"Lean back," I say. Maybe that will help. I can make out some shapes, now, and stick my fingers between two strange flaps of skin, pressing inward.

"Ow!" Maisie says. "That hurts, Martin. Stop that." She tries to grab my hand away put I swat at her arm.

"Is that where your hole is?" I ask.

"No," she says. "It's..." She bites her lip as she looks down between her legs, and I watch as she touches her fingers to her pussy, feeling around.

"You don't even know where it is!" I say.

"Yes, I do! Of course, I do," she says. "There!" I see her fingers sink into her body a bit, and I replace mine with hers, pushing deeper.

"Does this feel good or something to you?" I ask her, but Maisie shakes her head.

"No, it just kinda hurts," she says quietly. She winces as I try to push deeper.

"Martin, I don't think your s'posed to-" She jumps. "Ow, stop it. Just-" Maisie shoves me away, and I laugh, victorious.

"My fingers are the closest you've ever come to having a cock in you," I declare, and Maisie's face darkens.

"Yeah, well... So what?" She jumps from the wall and pulls her pants up again. "That was the closest to pussy you'll ever get. You won't get to stick your cock in _nothin_."

"It won't be going in you, that's for sure," I say.

"I don't want it. I bet it's ugly anyway."

"Ugly as your pussy?"

"Stop it!" She pushes me by the shoulders, and I laugh. Maisie isn't very bright, but she loves to let her hands do the talking.

"I bet you've never even touched a cock," I say. Maisie's head drops, and she stares at me.

"Only with my mouth." She says, grinning. "My momma taught me."

I grimace at the thought, but I doubt she's lying, her mother being a whore and all.

"I thought you hated your mom," I say. "And I thought she hated you, too."

"No," Maisie replies. "She taught me lots of useful stuff. How to steal money from men, how to get men to-"

"How to get arrested," I finish.

"Yeah, what's wrong with that? You think you're so tough, Martin, but you ain't never even been to Coldridge. That's where all the _real_ criminals go."

_Probably because I'm not stupid enough to attack a City Watch Officer for telling me to 'move along' or to beat a thug with a stick for calling me a 'little girl'', or to steal drugs from the Hatters._

At the age of fourteen, Maisie's already been arrested twice, even going to Coldridge the second time. It's a wonder that she hasn't gotten herself killed, yet.

"You're just jealous," she says. "'Cuz I'm a better criminal than you. It ain't fair for you to insult me just because you wanna feel better 'bout yourself."

"But, I'm not-" I catch myself. "Fine, I'm just jealous."

Maisie stares at me for a moment and sniffs, her face lighting up.

"You're just perfect, Martin. Ain't nobody else like you out there. I don't think you should be jealous, 'cuz you're smart. You can read all them books n' stuff."

Sometimes I'll read to Maisie. She likes the adventure books, like Marty Hawk and Pirate Seas, and when we finish a book, the next time I see her, Maisie's stolen five more; she'll throw them at me, declaring that I read to her right that moment, and - for some reason - I do. I should resent her. I don't like being told what to do.

When she's not insulting me, she's calling me 'special'. It's difficult to know what's going on inside her head; she's the most unpredictable person I've ever met, and I can't say that I liked the fact at first. I like to be able to read people, and Maisie changes with the breeze.

"Do you have to go to the warehouse today, Martin?" she asks. I'm familiar with the tone she uses.

"Yeah, I do," I say. "I gotta work."

"You can just steal for a livin'. Like me," she replies.

I could do that, but I love being in a gang. It means that I'm going somewhere. It means that I get protection. I've tried to explain it to Maisie, but she doesn't quite understand.

"I'll see you later," I say. Maisie doesn't reply, and instead gives me a _huff_, picking up a stick and heading toward the market.

Sometimes I just don't know what to say to her, and I trudge to the warehouse, already feeling tired.

* * *

"Black Sally wants to see you, kid."

"Huh?"

I have only just arrived at the warehouse, and Mickey stands by the entrance smoking a cigarette.

"Go on up and see her. Don't keep her waitin'," says Mickey, giving me a light push on the back.

I have worked for Black Sally for five years. _Five_ years, and she has never spoken a word to me. I see her fleetingly, and only from far away, inspecting the work, watching the thugs, and mostly talking to Mickey, but she's never so much as looked at me.

I gaze up at the metal stairway leading to Black Sally's office; I can feel my heart beating in my chest. I see these stairs every day, but today is my first to walk them, and they creak under my feet, echoing throughout the warehouse with every step I take. The door to Black Sally's office is large and sturdy, coated with heavily chipped paint and decorated with scratches. I knock, taking a deep breath. This is my first time meeting Sally. I have to make a good impression. I put my hands in my pockets and slouch a bit, making sure my box of cigarettes is rolled up tightly under my sleeve.

"Come in, already," I hear a muffled voice say from inside, and I turn the doorknob.

I have never seen Black Sally up close, but I remember being surprised the first time I saw her from afar. Thugs are supposed to look tough, but Sally has her own style.

She wears a tight black blouse with matching pants and a sash tied around her small waist. I have never seen so many curves on one person. Her hips and thighs are wide, and her bosom is round and full. Her hair falls down to her shoulders and is slightly wavy; she has the top part pulled back into two separate twists, one on each side of her head, and her face is powdered, her eyes lined with black, and her eyelashes long and full. Her mouth is heart-shaped and painted a luscious red, making her pale skin almost glow.

"So, you're the kid," she says, putting a cigarette in her mouth.

"Yeah," I say. "I'm Martin." Black Sally stares at me for a few seconds, and I realize that she holds her lighter up toward me. I take the lighter from her hand, lighting her cigarette, and she takes a puff.

"Just lay it on the desk, honey," she says. Her voice is nasally, but not in a bad way. It is almost as if she speaks in puffs-just as she smokes her cigarette. She studies me for a moment, crossing her legs. She wears heeled shoes - _high_ heels.

She sees me staring.

"What, hun? You never seen a woman before?" She leans forward, blowing a stream of smoke into my face. "Men are all the same. They're all thirteen year-old boys. One look at a woman's figure, and the next thing you know-" She snaps. "They got a knife in their belly." I gulp, forcing myself not to stare.

"I can take care of myself," I say, pushing my shoulders back.

"Yeah?" She raises a painted eyebrow. "Maybe so. I heard you can use a knife pretty good. Let me see."

I take the switchblade from my pocket, holding it out in front of me.

"What should I do?" I ask.

"Come at me," she says, waving me closer. "Come on, kid. Go ahead." I stare, wide-eyed and frozen. She _can't _really mean that, can she? She's testing me, but what do I do? After a few more seconds, Black Sally stands. "So, you're the type that needs an audience, huh? Come on." She heads toward the door, and I follow her down the stairs into the warehouse.

"Clear some space, boys," she says to the thugs, and they move aside boxes and carts until Black Sally and I stand in the middle of the room with an audience of thugs surrounding us. I can hear some of them taking bets. None are in my favor.

Sally takes a large knife from her belt, holding it out in front of her.

"Okay," I hear Mickey say. "The rules are-" he looks to Black Sally, who nods. "Anything goes." The thugs cheer loudly as Black Sally and I circle each other, and I try to look for her weak spots. However, she is the first to lunge forward, taking me by surprise, and I hear a yelp come from my throat as I fall backward, dropping my knife and scooting away.

The thugs guffaw around me, and I feel my face grow hot. Tears form in my eyes, but I will them away.

Black Sally laughs with them, her face pointed toward the ceiling, and I stand, picking my knife up and putting it away.

"Put him with the night boys," she says, turning to Mickey. She winks at me, but I cannot help but read the gesture as taunting. "A few years with them, and you'll toughen up real good." She turns and heads toward her office with her distinct walk, her heels clicking as her hips sway back and forth.

The thugs throw taunts at me as I look after her, and Mickey gets my attention.

"Go get some rest-" he says.

"But I just-"

"Go get some rest, and be here at midnight. You'll be workin' till sunrise." He pats me hard on the back, and I skulk away toward the bunks.

I am too old to live in the orphanage, now, so I stay in the warehouse with the rest of the thugs. There aren't too many bunks for us to sleep in, so most of us sleep on the floor. I find that since most of the thugs are working right now, I can actually sleep in a bed, and I kick my shoes off, collapsing on the bottom bunk.

There are five other men in the bunkroom at the moment, but I've never talked to any of them or really even seen them around.

_The night boys._

I close my eyes, attempting to get comfortable, but the fight has left me buzzing with adrenaline - and something else, too. I find myself wondering if I have just failed some test. Did Black Sally expect me to do better? Was I supposed to get a hit on her, or even win?

"I heard you can use a knife pretty good," she had said. Who told her that? Mickey? Was Mickey expecting me to do better.

I try to push the doubt from my mind, and I turn repeatedly in my bunk, its frame shaking and creaking.

"Whoever that is, lay still for fuck's sake, or I'll come over there n' make ya," I hear from the other end of the room. I settle back onto my back, wiggling my toes and fingers for a few minutes, until I realize that lying in bed is useless. I rip the thin blanket from my legs, and step into my shoes.

* * *

I spot Maisie by the docks eating a loaf of bread. She fights some seagulls away as they try to peck at her food.

"Goddamn, birds," I hear her say with a mouthful of bread, standing to kick one that has landed on the ground. Crumbs spray from her mouth.

I approach, swatting some of the seagulls away, and Maisie narrows her eyes at me.

"I could'a got rid of 'em by myself," she says, her mouth still partially full. Some bread sticks in her chipped front tooth, and I try to keep a frown from forming on my face.

"I'm hungry," I say. "Give me some of that." I grab at the other end of Maisie's loaf of bread, but she pulls it away.

"Oh, no, you don't. First the damn gulls, now you?" She takes another large bite, and I grab at the bread, pulling it toward me. We continue like this, Maisie yelling in anger and frustration and then laughing as we continue to tug the bread. Eventually, a piece gets loose, and I fall to the ground, grinning at my victory and stuffing the bread into my mouth. Maisie sits back on the dock, her face scrunched into a frown, and we eat in silence as we stare out at the water of the Wrenhaven.

"So, did you wanna have sex tonight?" Maisie says, breaking the silence. "We might as well."

I study Maisie, my eyes traveling over her stick legs and knobby knees. Her figure is flat and boring, her skin covered scabs and dirt, and she has a mess of dull, copper hair tied back behind her head.

"I have a job tonight," I say, playing with the bread in my hands.

"Oh," she says, looking back at the water. "I was wonderin' why you were out here."

"What, you mean you actually pay attention to my schedule?" I ask.

"Well, not like that! It ain't like I'm doin' it 'cause I care or nothin'. I just always notice that we see each other when the sun's goin' down." Maisie spits into the river. "What kinda stupid couple would we make? Maisie and Martin. Or actually Maisie and Te-"

"Don't you dare," I say, giving her my best glare.

"Or what?" Maisie says playfully.

"You're so immature, Maisie," I say, suddenly agitated. I stand.

"So are you," she says, frowning, but I shake my head.

"No, I'm not. You're the one who lies and plays all the time."

"So, you just came here to steal my food and insult me?"

We stand in silence for a few moments.

"If you're not gonna be nice to me, _Teague, _you can just leave," Maisie says.

"I'm nicer to you than you are to me," I say. Maisie shoves me.

"And? What, you can't handle it when a girl's mean to you?" She shoves me again, this time against the half-wall separating the street and the docks. I try to shove her back, but she kicks me in the leg. "I can't believe I ever thought about touchin' you, Teague. You're about as sorry as a starvin' street dog." She spits at me.

"Well, at least I don't smell," I say. Maisie moves to shove me again, but this time I'm ready, pushing her back. She stumbles backward, and I watch as she falls straight into the river. I can hear a few fishermen cackling from the far end of the dock, and Maisie's head pops from the water.

"I hate you!" she says.

"I hate you more!" I reply.

"I'll just drown myself. Then you'll think twice about bein' so mean to me." Maisie disappears into the water again, and I sigh, turning on my heel to head back to the warehouse, leaving Maisie to hold her breath.

* * *

Now that I've had some food and exercise, I figure that I will be able to sleep. I crawl back into bed, Maisie's threat digging its way to the front of my mind.

It's not difficult to get Maisie angry. I know she doesn't mean to be that way, but even the most innocent comment can set her off. We can never stay mad at each other for too long. Most likely, when I see her again it'll be as if nothing ever happened, but the worst I can do is lie to her - not just about anything, but if I say I'm going to be there, she expects me to be there.

I learned this the hard way after volunteering for a job to make a little extra coin. I left a note for Maisie in our meeting spot and left, but when I went to meet her the next day, I found my note torn up - underneath a dead rat.

Suddenly, Maisie jumped me from behind, grabbing my neck slamming me down onto the cobblestone. She sat on top of me, punching and biting my flesh; she broke my nose.

"Take your goddamn note back!" she said, balling the ripped paper in her hand and then attempting to shove it in my mouth. "I'll punch your teeth out! I'll rip your eyes out! I'll cut your balls off!" she screamed. She took the dead rat, trying to stuff it in my mouth as well.

I managed to hit her hard enough on the nose to get her off of me. She still tried to claw at me as I held her back.

"Maisie, stop!" I screamed.

"You're a liar!" she said. "You're scum just like everyone else! I thought you was different!"

After that day, whenever I tried to talk to her she just spat at me, calling me scum or even evil. I managed to gain her favor again a few weeks later after stealing her a whole cake from a bakery. We ate it together by the docks.

"Don't you ever do that to me again, Martin," she said. "Or I swear I'll kill you. I swear I'll tie a rope 'round your neck and then wrap it 'round mine and go jump off Kaldwin's Bridge. Then you'll be sorry. You'll scream and cry like a little girl."

I haven't done it since.

I stare at the top bunk, my mind wandering from Maisie to Black Sally.

Black Sally in her tight dress, with her curves and her makeup and heels. I trace her body in my mind.

Would Black Sally's pussy feel the same as Maisie's? I can feel a tightening in my pants as I think of the woman, her hips swaying back and forth as I trace my hands over her skin.

And then her lips on mine - smooth, soft, warm. It's something I've never known before, but still I can imagine how it would feel. Black Sally pinning me to her desk and taking my knife away from me as I try to fight.

"No, no, honey," she says, plucking the knife from my fingers. She opens it, brandishing the blade in my face. "You might hurt yourself with that. Don't you worry. I'll take good care of you."

My hand wanders under the blankets and to the buttons of my pants, the image of Black Sally blooming in my mind. She is warm and soft, and yet dangerous as well, but I give into her as she covers me completely.


	16. Thirty-Two (2)

I had no idea what chemicals they would use to put out an oil fire, so... baking soda sprinklers!

* * *

16

Thirty-Two

* * *

I am going to vomit.

I was never one to get motion sickness, but as I huddle in the cramped, hot cabin, trying to avoid the vile liquid spotted with unrecognizable semi-solids running along the floor, I find myself gagging. The ship rocks back and forth, sometimes violently, sending a mess of boys and vomit careening from side to side. I hack with my face to the floor, covering my nose and mouth to keep the stench away, but it has filled the small space.

When the storm started, Keith grabbed my coat, pulling me close.

"What if the ship sinks, Martin?" he whispered frantically. "You'll save me, right? You know how to swim, right?"

"The ship's not going to sink," I said, pushing him away.

"But what if it _does_? I don't wanna die!"

The boy was near tears as we descended into the cabin, already fighting the winds and sharp rain, but after an hour in close quarters, Keith turns to me, his face pale with a greenish tint.

"You know what, Martin?" he says. "Dying wouldn't be too bad right now." He sweats and pants, and I can tell that he is struggling to keep the food from rising from his stomach.

I ignore him, sighing and covering my face with my hands and attempting to breathe steadily.

My other companions are in varying stages of misery. Kieran sits calmly, holding onto Andrew as he lays over his lap sobbing. Andrew was the first to vomit, starting and stopping continually for the past hour. Kieran pats him on the back.

"It's okay, Andrew," he says in his accent. "I used to have to inhale an infusion of ginger root when I was nauseous. I wish I had some for you right now." I keep my inner pity from forming on my face as I look at the two. Kieran is far too kind for his own good, and one day, someone will take advantage of that and leave him lying in the dirt.

The floor tilts violently to the right, and I attempt to hold on to the floor as I feel myself slide. However, as all the others have discovered, the floor is far too full of slime to hold any traction, and we roll to the right and then stop as the ship tilts left.

"When do we get to Morley?" Keith whines. I can hear shouting from up above. "Maybe the ship's sinking," he says, closing his eyes. "Good."

"Shut up, river slime," I hear. The blond boy eyes Keith sharply. "Not all of us are as unimportant as-" The ship rocks right - the most it's ever rocked before - and we all go flying, the blond boy screaming, until we hit the wall. The ship levels off again, and the boy grabs his knees, shaking.

I can hear screams from above.

"Fuck. Fuck!" I hear as one of the sailors passes by the closed hatch.

The blond boy breathes loudly, and Andrew grabs my arm. I don't even know if he notices.

"Martin?" I hear a voice, barely audible over the rocking and screams. "What's wrong with him?" Andrew seems to be passed out.

"He's okay," I say. "He just-"

The ship bangs and buckles, and I can see smoke coming from one of the inner hatches. It seeps through the door, thick and black.

"Fire!" I hear someone yell. "The ship's on fucking fire!" Some of the boys scramble toward the outer door, but fall as the ship rocks.

"We're gonna fucking die!" Keith yells. "In a fire. In the middle of the ocean! They'll laugh at our funeral." His grip on my arm tightens.

"It's probably the engine room," I say. "I'd rather not burn to death, so it needs to be put out."

Kieran is the first to stand.

"I'll help," he says, inching his way toward the hatch. I follow him, managing to pry the fire extinguisher off the wall. I hand it to Kieran and look around the room, all the other boys avoiding my gaze.

I groan, whipping open the door and closing it behind me.

I grab another extinguisher along the way, and Kieran and I cover our faces, holding the extinguishers under our arms and using the other hand to hold onto various objects for support. I can barely see through the smoke, but the room gets hotter.

Kieran is ahead of me, and I hear him yell.

"It's hot!" he screams, nearly crying. "I - I can't open the hatch."

The metal hatch smokes, heat waves coming from its body, and I search around for something to use to open the door. Shit, there's nothing. I can feel myself becoming disorientated with the rocking of the ship and the thickness of the smoke. Suddenly, I cannot tell where I am.

"Hey!" I yell. "Kieran?"

There is no answer, but soon I hear something off in the distance.

"Here! Help me!" I follow the voice, nearly bumping into Kieran. He coughs repeatedly, and I struggle to keep from doing so as well. "I can't pull this. I'm not strong enough."

Kieran's thin arms shake as he strains, trying to pull a red lever. I grab onto it, pushing it down, and it slides, setting off an alarm. I can hear noise in the engine room.

"I think that turns on the soda sprinklers," he says. Sure enough, white powder drifts into the room, rising into the air. The baking soda continues to fall as the alarm goes off, and I grab Kieran's arm.

"We shouldn't breathe in any more smoke," I say, and we feel our way back to the cabin.

We return to find the room partially flooded. Someone had opened the outer hatch to clear the smoke. The ground sloshes back and forth, and now every one of the boys is covered in vomit. Keith huddles in the corner, and Andrew lies face-down on the floor. I stare at him, my mind not quite processing my alarm, even as the water splashes around my ankles.

Kieran covers his mouth hacking the smoke from his lungs, and I start to do the same; unfortunately, my body has other plans, and I gag suddenly, a stream of vomit erupting from my mouth.

* * *

Andrew's body, wrapped in a sheet, is unrecognizable among those of the sailors lost during the storm. Some were swept overboard, and the ones who managed to stay on the ship, died in agony as the other sailors ran past them, completely oblivious to their presence.

Kieran is the only one who cries, and he attempts to hold my arm, sniffling into my coat. I pull away, crossing my arms in front of my chest. Kieran sniffles.

I cannot say that I am at all sad. I barely knew Andrew; all of us barely knew him, but my pity returns as the petite boy continues to cry, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

Kieran is too kind-hearted and far too sensitive for this place. He won't survive for long if he continues to act this way, but he will learn and then grow a thick skin just like the rest of us.

The sailors are a different story, most looking pale and grim, others clenching their fists and jaws. Unlike us, they knew each other.

"Before you all are dismissed, I would like to recognize a few of the good soldiers of the Imperial Army, who took it upon themselves to extinguish a fire in the engine room. Though, sailors, we will have to later discuss how to properly clean the engine room, because it seems that some of you have forgotten." The Captain clears his throat. "In order to recognize your bravery - " I nearly laugh as my sense of self-preservation is mistaken for courage. "- Please step forward, Teague Martin and Kieran - Ma - Martin."

The first time our names were called, I answered in place of Kieran, but I quickly realized my mistake after hearing: "Martin - _another _Martin. This one's spelled right at least. _Teague_ Martin!"

Kieran explained the confusion to me, repeating his last name with the correct pronunciation.

"My last name's _Mairtín_. They look the same, though," he explained. "I - I saw your name on the ship manifest and thought that maybe you were Morlish. There are plenty who change their last names in Dunwall so they'll look and sound more Gristian. Plus, you Gristians can't pronounce our language for shit." He blushed and smiled at his use of profanity.

I admit that I do not know much about Morley, besides what happened during the Insurrection, but Kieran promised me that he would tell me about it - that was _before_ the storm, though.

At dinner, I find Kieran hiding out in the bunkroom.

"Not hungry?" I say, raising an eyebrow. Kieran looks up at me, and I can tell that he's been crying. _Just_ my luck. Outsider's Eyes, I don't know how to deal with children.

I stay silent, nearly turning and leaving the room.

"Martin," I hear.

"Yeah."

Kieran looks up at me with his teary eyes. I know he wants me to stay, but what do I do? _Fuck._

"I - I -" I wait for him to speak. "I - Andrew - I - "

"He's _gone_," I say.

"I _know_," Kieran says, raising his voice. "But - I - "

I tap my finger against my leg, waiting for him to continue.

"I _killed_ him," Kieran says, sniffling. "I left him there on the floor." I sigh and find myself wondering when I last actually heard someone say that in a sad way.

_I killed him._

The thugs in Coldridge, Jarvis, Dusty and Lex, Nico and Emil, Black Sally, Mickey Smith...

"When I was seven, I convinced a boy to pick up a venomous snake," I say. "It bit him - more than once - and I watched him struggle on the floor in agony. He screamed and cried."

"Did you help him?" Kieran asks. I shake my head.

"Nope. I just watched, and the other boys watched too. Most of them were laughing."

"Was this when you were in school?" Kieran says. I glance down at him for a moment.

"Yeah, school," I reply. "The boy died the next day, and you know what?" Kieran stares silently, his eyes wet. "Nobody gave a shit."

I watch as Kieran drops his head, wringing his hands together. A few drops of water land on his skin.

"_Why?" _he finally says, looking up at me, his voice wavering. "Why - how could they be so cruel?" I look Kieran straight in the eye.

"Because that's how people are, and those who aren't - adjust."

"_You_ weren't like that, were you? You were sad, right? Then you - adjusted."

I keep my face blank.

"When I heard that he had died, I told myself that _I _didn't kill him. That it was the _snake_ that killed him." I say. "I didn't do it, and I didn't even like the boy, so why bother being sad?"

Kieran threatens to erupt into tears.

"But - "

"The point is," I continue. "Andrew was killed in the storm. You didn't know him, you didn't kill him, and there's no use in crying over something you didn't do to someone you didn't even know."

"And you believe that?" Kieran watches my face closely, and I look away, clenching my jaw.

"With all my might. I _have to."_


End file.
